HALLECFS  POEMS. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECR 


NEW   EDITION. 


NEW  YORK  -. 
D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY, 

840    &    848    BROADWAY. 
M.DOCO.LV1II. 


ENTERED,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  One  Thousand 
Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty-two,  by  J.  S.  KEDFIELD,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York 


PS  t 

18 

CONTENTS.  ^' 


PAGE 

MARCO  BOZZARIS 9 

*  ALNWICK  CASTLE 15 

^  BURNS 22 

WYOMING 30 

c    ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 35 

TWILIGHT 37 

PSALM  CXXsffl 40 

To  **** 42 

"  THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS 44 

J  RED  JACKET 50 

LOVE 56 

A    SKETCH 59 

DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS 61 

MAGDALEN 64 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN 68 

TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  GOETHE 70 

WOMAN..  72 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

A  POET'S   DAUGHTER 75 

CONNECTICUT - 80 

Music 86 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUT.  ALLEN 89 

FANNY 93 

THE   RECORDER 161 

EPISTLES,  ETC. 

To  WALTER  BOWNE,  ESQ 181 

To  **** 186 

A  FRAGMENT 192 

SONG,  BY  Miss  *** 195 

SONG,  FOR  THE  DRAMA  OF  THE  SPY 198 

ADDRESS  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  A  NEW  THEATRE 200 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT   COASTER 204 

LlNES  TO  HER  WHO  CAN  UNDERSTAND  THEM 212 

EXTRACT  FROM  AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM 217 

To  Louis  GAYLORD  CLARK,  ESQ 230 

NOTES...  _  237 


MARCO   BOZZABIS. 

AT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  : 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring  : 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king  ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 
Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 
Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 


10  MARCO     BOZZARIS. 

There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platoea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arms  !  they  come  !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death  shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud  ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  ; 

God — and  your  native  land  !" 


MARCO     BOZZARIS.  11 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death  J 
Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 

For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 
Come  when  the  blessed  seals 

That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 

Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 

The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 
With  banquet  song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 

And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 


1:2  MARCO     BOZZARIS. 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm. 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 


MARCOBOZZARIS.  13 

Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed  ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears : 


14  MARCO     BOZZABIS. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's ; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


ALNW1CK    CASTLE.2 

HOME  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 


16  A  L  N  W  I  C  K     C  A  S  T  L  E  . 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile : 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping1? 
One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 


ALNWICK     CASTLE.  17 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom  : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath, 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here ; 


18  ALNWICK     CASTLE. 

Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 

.    I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
From  him3  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son,4 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 


That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dashed 
From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup ; 


ALNWICK     CASTLE.  19 

The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flashed, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone ; 
And  Alnwick  's  but  a  market  town, 
And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way  ; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 
From  royal  Berwick's5  beach  of  sand, 
From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  riot  fable, 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  Kound  Table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy : 
'Tis  what  "  our  president,"  Monroe, 

Has  called  "  the  era  of  good  feeling  :» 


20  ALNWICK     CASTLE. 

The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing : 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglass  in  red  herrings ; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come  :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start), 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 
And  on  the  Cross  and  altar  stone, 
And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 


ALN  WICK     CASTLE.  1>  1 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die  ; 
And  not  a  sabre  blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state  ? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "  gentle  Kate," 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men, 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn  ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


BURNS. 


TO  A  ROSE,  BROUGHT  FROM  NEAR  ALLOWAY  KIRK,  IN  AYRSHIRE,  IN 
THE  AUTUMN  OF  1822. 


WILD  Rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks ; 

Thou  'mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon 
When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 

And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We've  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay- 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Allowav  ? 


BURNS.  23 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 

My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 
His — who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 

Immortal  as  his  song, 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind ; 
And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 

We  may  of  human  kind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath  ; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 
The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 

To  that  Bard-peasant  given  ! 


24  BURNS. 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-Minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power. 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires  : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 


BURNS.  25 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 
In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 

In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

• 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 

Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 
And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 

The  Poet's  mastery 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 

In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 
Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 

From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 
2 


26  BURNS. 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's  "  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 


BURNS.  27 


Through  care  and  pain,  and  want,  and  wo, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow  men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 
Of  coward  and  of  slave  • 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard!  his  words* are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 


28  BURNS. 

Prau.    to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim  shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 

Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 


BURNS.  29 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far ; 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 

The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 
Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 

My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  ea.rth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees, 

And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 
And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 

The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths  and  urns '( 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns? 


WYOMING." 


"  Dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour 
une  Claire,  et  pour  un  St.  Preux,  mais  no  les  y  cherchez  pas." 

ROUSSEAU. 


I. 

THOU  com'st,  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last, 
"  On  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming !" 
Image  of  many  a  dream,  in  hours  long  past, 
When  life  was  in  its  bud  and  blossoming, 
And  waters,  gushing  from  the  fountain  spring 
Of  pure  enthusiast  thought,  dimmed  my  young  eyes, 
As  by  the  poet  borne,  on  unseen  wing, 
I  breathed,  in  fancy,  'neath  thy  cloudless  skies, 
The  summer's  air,  and  heard  her  echoed  harmonies. 


WYOMING.  31 

II. 

I  then  but  dreamed  :  thou  art  before  me  now, 
In  life,  a  vision  of  the  brain  no  more. 
I've  stood  upon  the  wooded  mountain's  brow, 
That  beetles  high  thy  lovely  valley  o'er ; 
And  now,  where  winds  thy  river's  greenest  shore, 
Within  a  bower  of  sycamores  am  laid  ; 
And  winds,  as  soft  and  sweet  as  ever  bore 
The  fragrance  of  wild  flowers  through  sun  and  shade, 
Are  singing  in  the  trees,  whose  low  boughs  press  my  head. 

III. 

Nature  hath  made  thee  lovelier  than  the  power 
Even  of  Campbell's  pen  hath  pictured :  he 
Had  woven,  had  he  gazed  one  sunny  hour 
Upon  thy  smiling  vale,  its  scenery 
With  more  of  truth,  and  made  each  rock  and  tree 
Known  like  old  friends,  and  greeted  from  afar : 
And  there  are  tales  of  sad  reality, 
In  the  dark  legends  of  thy  border  war, 
With  woes  of  deeper  tint  than  his  own  Gertrude's  are. 


32  WYOMING. 

IV. 

But  where  are  they,  the  beings  of  the  mind, 
The  bard's  creations,  moulded  not  of  cla-j, 
Hearts  to  strange  bliss  and  suffering  assigned — 
Young  Gertrude,  Albert,  Waldegrave — where  are 

they? 

We  need  not  ask.     The  people  of  to-day 
Appear  good,  honest,  quiet  men  enough, 
And  hospitable  too — for  ready  pay ; 
With  manners  like  their  roads,  a  little  rough, 

A.nd  hands  whose  grasp  is  warm  and  welcoming,  though 
tough. 

V. 

Judge  Hallenbach,  who  keeps  the  toll-bridge  gate, 
And  the  town  records,  is  the  Albert  now 
Of  Wyoming  :  like  him,  in  church  and  state, 
Her  Doric  column ;  and  upon  his  brow 
The  thin  hairs,  white  with  seventy  winters'  snow, 
Look  patriarchal.     Waldegrave  'twere  in  vain 
To  point  out  here,  unless  in  yon  scare-crow, 
That  stands  full-uniformed  upon  the  plain, 

To  frighten  flocks  of  crows  and  blackbirds  from  the  grain. 


WYOMING. 

VL 

For  he  would  look  particularly  droll 
In  his  "  Iberian  boot"  and  "  Spanish  plume," 
And  be  the  wonder  of  each  Christian  soul 
As  of  the  birds  that  scare-crow  and  his  broom. 
But  Gertrude,  in  her  loveliness  and  bloom, 
Hath  many  a  model  here ;  for  woman's  eye, 
In  court  or  cottage,  wheresoe'er  her  home, 
Hath  a  heart-spell  too  holy  and  too  high 
To  be  o'erpraised  even  by  her  worshipper — Poesy. 

VII. 

There's  one  in  the  next  field — of  sweet  sixteen — 
Singing  and  summoning  thoughts  of  beauty  born 
In  heaven — with  her  jacket  of  light  green, 
"  Love-darting  eyes,  and  tresses  like  the  morn," 
Without  a  shoe  or  stocking — hoeing  corn. 
Whether,  like  Gertrude,  she  oft  wanders  there, 
With  Shakspeare's  volume  in  her  bosom  borne, 
I  think  is  doubtful.     Of  the  poet-player 

The  maiden  knows  no  more  than  Cobbett  or  Voltaire. 
2* 


34  WYOMING. 

VIII. 

There  is  a  woman,  widowed,  gray,  and  old, 
Who  tells  you  where  the  foot  of  Battle  stepped 
Upon  their  day  of  massacre.     She  told 
Its  tale,  and  pointed  to  the  spot,  and  wept, 
Whereon  her  father  and  five  brothers  slept 
Shroudless,  the  bright-dreamed  slumbers  of  the  brave, 
When  all  the  land  a  funeral  mourning  kept. 
And  there,  wild  laurels  planted  on  the  grave 
By  Nature's  hand,  in  air  their  pale  red  blossoms  wave. 

IX. 

And  on  the  margin  of  yon  orchard  hill 
Are  marks  where  timeworn  battlements  have  been, 
And  in  the  tall  grass  traces  linger  still 
Of  "  arrowy  frieze  and  wedged  ravelin." 
Five  hundred  of  her  brave  that  valley  green 
Trod  on  the  morn  in  soldier-spirit  gay  ; 
But  twenty  lived  to  tell  the  noonday  scene — 
And  where  are  now  the  twenty  ?     Passed  away. 
Has  Death  no  triumph-hours,  save  on  the  battle-day  1 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 


JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE 


OF  NEW- YORK,  SEPT.,  1820. 


"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they,  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

WORDSWORTH. 


GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 
Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine : 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


TWILIGHT. 

THERE  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart, 

When  its  wild  passion-waves  are  lulled  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 

As  fades  the  day-beam  in  the  rosy  west. 
Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 

But  Hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early  power. 

In  youth  the  cheek  was  crimsoned  with  her  glow ; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then  ;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  wo 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 


38  TWILIGHT. 

Life's  little  word  of  bliss  was  newly  born ; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die, 
Flushed  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mocked  the  passing  clouds  that  dimmed  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then — as  fleeting  and  as  few. 

And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too — on  the  eye, 

Half  realized,  her  early  dreams  burst  bright, 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seemed  nigh, 

Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight ; 
And  though  at  times  might  lower  the  thunder-storm, 

And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 
Was  balmy  with  her  breath,  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 
'Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen, 
Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer  green. 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress, 

There's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her  now ; 

That  angel-smile  of  tranquil  loveliness, 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 


TWILIGHT.  39 

That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening  star 
That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 

Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar, 

And  hushed  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart ; 

The  meteor-bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 

A  moonbeam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 


4r  '  — 

Library. 

^CWifrrn** 


PSALM    CXXXVII. 

"  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon." 

WE  sat  us  down  and  wept, 
Where  Babel's  waters  slept, 
And  we  thought  of  home  and  Zion  as  a  long-gone, 

happy  dream; 
We  hung  our  harps  in  air 
On  the  willow  boughs,  which  there, 
Gloomy  as  round  a  sepulchre,  were  drooping  o'er  the 
stream. 

The  foes,  whose  chain  we  wore, 

Were  with  us  on  that  shore, 
Exulting  in  our  tears  that  told  the  bitterness  of  wo. 

"  Sing  us,"  they  cried  aloud, 

"  Ye,  once  so  high  and  proud, 
The  songs  ye  sang  in  Zion  ere  we  laid  her  glory  low." 


PSALM     CXXXVJI.  41 

And  shall  the  harp  of  heaven 

To  Judah's  monarch  given 
Be  touched  by  captive  fingers,  or  grace  a  fettered  hand  ? 

No !  sooner  be  my  tongue 

Mute,  powerless,  and  unstrung, 
Than  its  words  of  holy  music  make  glad  a  stranger  land. 

May  this  right  hand,  whose  skill 

Can  wake  the  harp  at  will, 

And  bid  the  listener's  joys  or  griefs  in  light  or  darkness 
come, 

Forget  its  godlike  power, 

If  for  one  brief,  dark  hour, 
My  heart  forgets  Jerusalem,  fallen  city  of  my  home ! 

Daughter  of  Babylon ! 

Blessed  be  that  chosen  one, 

Whom  God  shall  send  to  smite  thee  when  there  is  none 
to  save : 

He  from  the  mother's  breast, 

Shall  pluck  the  babe  at  rest, 
And  lay  it  in  the  sleep  of  death  beside  its  father's  grave. 


TO  ****, 

THE  world  is  bright  before  thee, 

Its  summer  flowers  are  thine, 
Its  calm  blue  sky  is  o'er  thee, 

Thy  bosom  Pleasure's  shrine ; 
And  thine  the  sunbeam  given 

To  Nature's  morning  hour, 
Pure,  warm,  as  when  from  heaven 

It  burst  on  Eden's  bower. 

There  is  a  song  of  sorrow, 
The  death-dirge  of  the  gay, 

That  tells,  ere  dawn  of  morrow, 
These  charms  may  melt  away, 


TO  ****.  43 


That  sun's  bright  beam  be  shaded, 
That  sky  be  blue  no  more, 

The  summer  flowers  be  faded, 
And  youth's  warm  promise  o'er. 

Believe  it  not — though  lonely 

Thy  evening  home  may  be ; 
Though  Beauty's  bark  can  only 

Float  on  a  summer  sea ; 
Though  Time  thy  bloom  is  stealing, 

There's  still  beyond  his  art 
The  wild-flower  wreath  of  feeling, 

The  sunbeam  of  the  heart. 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

1.  SARATOGA. 

STRANGERS  !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 
Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy, 

When  the  mind's  wings  o'erspread 

The  spirit-world  of  dreams. 

True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness — the  bright 
Green  dwelling  of  the  summer's  first-born  Hours, 

Whose  wakened  leaf  and  bud 

Are  welcoming  the  morn. 

And  morn  returns  the  welcome,  sun  and  cloud 
Smile  on  the  green  earth  from  their  home  in  heaven, 

Even  as  a  mother  smiles 

Above  her  cradled  boy, 


THE   FIELD    OF    THE    GROUNDED    ARMS.        45 

And  wreath  their  light  and  shade  o'er  plain  and  mountain, 
O'er  sleepless  seas  of  grass  whose  waves  are  flowers, 

The  river's  golden  shores, 

The  forests  of  dark  pines. 

The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee,  the  music  wild 

Of  waves  upon  the  bank, 

Of  leaves  upon  the  bough. 

But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land, 
Beneath  her  skies  of  June  ;  then  journey  on, 

A  thousand  scenes  like  this 

Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve. 

Ye  linger  yet — ye  see  not,  hear  not  now, 
The  sunny  smile,  the  music  of  to-day, 

Your  thoughts  are  wandering  up, 

Far  up  the  stream  of  time ; 

And  boyhood's  lore  and  fireside  listened  tales 
Are  rushing  on  your  memories,  as  ye  breathe 

That  valley's  storied  name, 

FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 


46        THE   FIELD    OF   THE    GROUNDED   ARMS, 

Strangers  no  more,  a  kindred  "  pride  of  place," 
Pride  in  the  gift  of  country  and  of  name. 

Speaks  in  your  eye  and  step — 

Ye  tread  your  native  land. 

And  your  high  thoughts  are  on  her  glory's  day, 
The  solemn  sabbath  of  the  week  of  battle, 

Whose  tempests  bowed  to  earth 

Her  foeman's  banner  here. 

The  forest  leaves  lay  scattered  cold  and  dead, 
Upon  the  withered  grass  that  autumn  morn, 

When,  with  as  withered  hearts 

And  hopes  as  dead  and  cold, 

A  gallant  army  formed  their  last  array 
Upon  that  field,  in  silence  and  deep  gloom, 

And  at  their  conqueror's  feet 

Laid  their  war-weapons  down. 

Sullen  and  stern,  disarmed  but  not  dishonored ; 
Brave  men,  but  brave  in  vain,  they  yielded  there : 

The  soldier's  trial  task 

Is  not  alone  "  to  die." 


THE   FIELD    OP   THE    GROUNDED   ARMS.        47 

Honor  to  chivalry  !  the  conqueror's  breath 
Stains  not  the  ermine  of  his  foeman's  fame, 

Nor  mocks  his  captive's  doom — 

The  bitterest  cup  of  war. 

But  be  that  bitterest  cup  the  doom  of  all 
Whose  swords  are  lightning  flashes  in  the  cloud 

Of  the  Invader's  wrath, 

Threatening  a  gallant  land. 

His  armies'  trumpet-tones  wake  not  alone 
Her  slumbering  echoes  ;  from  a  thousand  hills 

Her  answering  voices  shout, 

And  her  bells  ring  to  arms  ! 

Then  danger  hovers  o'er  the  Invader's  march, 
On  raven  wings,  hushing  the  song  of  fame, 

And  glory's  hues  of  beauty 

Fade  from  the  cheek  of  death. 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree, 

The  eagle  eye  of  art 

Is  dim  and  powerless  then, 


48        THE    FIELD    OF    THE    GROUNDED    ARMS. 

And  war  becomes  a  people's  joy,  the  drum 
Man's  merriest  music,  and  the  field  of  death 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 

After  life's  harvest  home. 

He  battles  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue  sky 
Above  him,  and  his  own  green  land  around, 

Land  of  his  father's  grave, 

His  blessing  and  his  prayers, 

Land  where  he  learned  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot, 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve, 

Land  of  his  children — vain  your  columned  strength, 
Invaders !  vain  your  battles'  steel  and  fire  ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom — 

A  prison  or  a  grave. 

And  such  were  Saratoga's  victors — such 

The  Yeomen-Brave,  whose  deeds  and  death  have  given 

A  glory  to  her  skies, 

A  music  to  her  name. 


THE    FIELD    OF    THE    GROUNDED    ARMS.      49 

In  honorable  life  her  fields  they  trod, 
In  honorable  death  they  sleep  below  ; 

Their  sons'  proud  feelings  here 

Their  noblest  monuments. 


3 


KED    JACKET. 

A   CHIEF    OF    THE    INDIAN    TRIBES,    THE    TUSCARORAS. 
ON  LOOKING  AT  HIS  PORTRAIT  BY  WEIR. 

COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind — 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind  ;7 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall  of  nations, 
Eobed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought ; 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 

And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought : 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con. : 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted. 
The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known. 


RED     JACKET.  51 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph. 

And  furthermore — in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 

We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine  ; 
And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 

Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow- 
Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 

Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 
Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 

Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 


52 


RED     JACKET. 


Thy  name  is  princely — if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land ;  and  on  her  herald  roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Coaur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at  Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood, 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth  s  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 

Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 


RED   JACKET.  53 

Is  beauty  1 — Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed ;  *• 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 

And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 
Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are  short. 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding, 

The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 

The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one : 

Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 

Who  will  believe  ?     Not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem ; 


54  REDJACKET. 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  sooth  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair ! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas-tree  ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 

Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee  ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water  ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars  ; 


RED     JACKET.  55 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  may  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 
Remembered  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone  ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne ! 


LOVE. 


*  *  *  *  The  imperial  votress  passed  on 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

Midsummer  NlgliVs  Dream. 

Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore  again  ? 

BENEDICT,  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 


WHEN  the  tree  of  Love  is  budding  first, 

Ere  yet  its  leaves  are  green, 
Ere  yet,  by  shower  and  sunbeam  nursed 

Its  infant  life  has  been  ; 
The  wild  bee's  slightest  touch  might  wring 

The  buds  from  off  the  tree, 
As  the  gentle  dip  of  the  swallow's  wing 

Breaks  the  bubbles  on  the  sea. 


LOVE.  57 


II. 


But  when  its  open  leaves  have  found 

A  home  in  the  free  air, 
Pluck  them,  and  there  remains  a  wound 

That  ever  rankles  there. 
The  blight  of  hope  and  happiness 

Is  felt  when  fond  ones  part, 
And  the  bitter  tear  that  follows  is 

The  life-blood  of  the  heart. 


HI. 

When  the  flame  of  love  is  kindled  first, 
'Tis  the  fire-fly's  light  at  even, 

'Tis  dim  as  the  wandering  stars  that  burst 
In  the  blue  of  the  summer  heaven. 

A  breath  can  bid  it  burn  no  more, 
Or  if,  at  times,  its  beams 

Come  on  the  memory,  they  pass  o'er 

Like  shadows  in  our  dreams. 
3* 


58  LOVE. 

IV. 

But  when  that  flame  has  blazed  into 

A  being  and  a  power, 
And  smiled  in  scorn  upon  the  dew 

That  fell  in  its  first  warm  hour, 
'Tis  the  flame  that  curls  round  the  martyr's  head, 

Whose  task  is  to  destroy ; 
'Tis  the  lamp  on  the  altars  of  the  dead, 

Whose  light  but  darkens  joy. 


V. 

Then  crush,  even  in  their  hour  of  birth, 

The  infant  buds  of  Love, 
And  tread  his  glowing  fire  to  earth, 

Ere  'tis  dark  in  clouds  above  ; 
Cherish  no  more  a  cypress-tree 

To  shade  thy  future  years, 
Nor  nurse  a  heart-flame  that  may  be 

Quenched  only  with  thy  tears. 


A  SKETCH.    X 


HER  Leghorn  hat  was  of  the  bright  gold  tint 

The  setting  sunbeams  give  to  autumn  clouds ; 

The  riband  that  encircled  it  as  blue 

As  spots  of  sky  upon  a  moonless  night, 

When  stars  are  keeping  revelry  in  heaven  ; 

A  single  ringlet  of  her  clustering  hair 

Fell  gracefully  beneath  her  hat,  in  curls 

As  dark  as  down  upon  the  raven's  wing ; 

The  kerchief,  partly  o'er  her  shoulders  flung, 

And  partly  waving  in  the  wind,  was  woven 

Of  every  color  the  first  rainbow  wore, 

When  it  came  smiling  in  its  hues  of  beauty, 

A  promise  from  on  high  to  a  lost  world. 

Her  robe  seemed  of  the  snow  just  fallen  to  earth, 

Pure  from  its  home  in  the  far  winter  clouds, 

As  white,  as  stainless ;  and  around  her  waist 


60  ASKETCH. 

(You  might  have  spanned   it  with  your   thumb  and 

finger), 

A  girdle  of  the  hue  of  Indian  pearls 
Was  twined,  resembling  the  faint  line  of  water 
That  follows  the  swift  bark  o'er  quiet  seas. 
Her  face  I  saw  not :  but  her  shape,  her  form, 
Was  one  of  those  with  which  creating  bards 
People  a  world  of  their  own  fashioning, 
Forms  for  the  heart  to  love  and  cherish  ever, 
The  visiting  angels  of  our  twilight  dreams. 
Her  foot  was  loveliest  of  remembered  things, 
Small  as  a  fairy's  on  a  moon-lit  leaf 
Listening  the  wind-harp's  song,  and  watching  by 
The  wild-thyme  pillow  of  her  sleeping  queen, 
When  proud  Titania  shuns  her  Oberon. 
But  'twas  that  foot  which  broke  the  spell — alas  ! 
Its  stocking  had  a  deep,  deep  tinge  of  blue — 
I  turned  away  in  sadness,  and  passed  on. 


DOMESTIC    HAPPINESS. 


*        *        *        *        *        The  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall. 

COWPEB. 


*  BESIDE  the  nuptial  curtain  bright," 

The  Bard  of  Eden  sings, 
"  Young  Love  his  constant  lamp  will  light, 

And  wave  his  purple  wings." 
But  rain-drops  from  the  clouds  of  care 

May  bid  that  lamp  be  dim, 
And  the  boy  Love  will  pout  and  swear 

'Tis  then  no  place  for  him. 


62  DOMESTIC     HAPPINESS. 

II. 

So  mused  the  lovely  Mrs.  Dash ; 

'Tis  wrong  to  mention  names  ; 
When  for  her  surly  husband's  cash 

She  urged  in  vain  her  claims. 
"  I  want  a  little  money,  dear, 

For  Vandervoort  and  Flandin, 
Their  bill,  which  now  has  run  a  year, 

To-morrow  mean  to  hand  in." 


IIL 

ft  More  ?"  cried  the  husband,  half  asleep, 

"  You'll  drive  me  to  despair  ;" 
The  lady  was  too  proud  to  weep, 

And  too  polite  to  swear. 
She  bit  her  lip  for  very  spite, 

He  felt  a  storm  was  brewing, 
And  dreamed  of  nothing  else  all  night, 

But  brokers,  banks,  and  ruin. 


DOMESTIC     HAPPINESS. 

IV. 

He  thought  her  pretty  once,  but  dreams 

Have  sure  a  wondrous  power, 
For  to  his  eye  the  lady  seems 

Quite  altered  since  that  hour  ; 
And  Love,  who  on  their  bridal  eve, 

Had  promised  long  to  stay, 
Forgot  his  promise,  took  French  leave, 

And  bore  his  lamp  away. 


MAGDALEN.7 

I. 

A  SWORD,  whose  blade  has  ne'er  been  wet 

With  blood,  except  of  freedom's  foes  ; 
That  hope  which,  though  its  sun  be  set, 

Still  with  a  starlight  beauty  glows ; 
A  heart  that  worshipp'd  in  Romance 

The  Spirit  of  the  buried  Time, 
And  dreams  of  knight,  and  steed,  and  lanc( 

And  ladye-love,  and  minstrel-rhyme  ; 
These  had  been,  and  I  deemed  would  be 
My  joy,  whate'er  my  destiny. 


MAGDALEN.  65 


II. 

Born  in  a  camp,  its  watch-fires  bright 

Alone  illumed  my  cradle-bed  ; 
And  I  had  borne  with  wild  delight 

My  banner  where  Bolivar  led, 
Ere  manhood's  hue  was  on  my  cheek, 

Or  manhood's  pride  was  on  my  brow. 
Its  foes  are  furled — the  war-bird's  beak 

Is  thirsty  on  the  Andes  now ; 
I  longed,  like  her,  for  other  skies 
Clouded  by  Glory's  sacrifice. 

III. 

In  Greece,  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land, 

Its  soldier-song  the  bugle  sings  ; 
And  I  had  buckled  on  my  brand, 

And  waited  but  the  sea-wind's  wings, 
To  bear  me  where,  or  lost  or  won 

Her  battle,  in  its  frown  or  smile, 
Men  live  with  those  of  Marathon, 

Or  die  with  those  of  Scio's  isle; 
And  find  in  Valor's  tent  or  tomb, 
In  life  or  death,  a  glorious  home. 


66  MAGDALEN. 

IV. 

I  could  have  left  but  yesterday 

The  scene  of  my  boy-years  behind, 
And  floated  on  my  careless  way 

Wherever  willed  the  breathing  wind. 
I  could  have  bade  adieu  to  aught 

I've  sought,  or  met,  or  welcomed  here, 
Without  an  hour  of  shaded  thought, 

A  sigh,  a  murmur,  or  a  tear. 
Such  was  I  yesterday — but  then 
I  had  not  known  thee,  Magdalen. 

V. 

To-day  there  is  a  change  within  me, 

There  is  a  weight  upon  my  brow, 
And  Fame,  whose  whispers  once  could  win  me 

From  all  I  loved,  is  powerless  now. 
There  ever  is  a  form,  a  face 

Of  maiden  beauty  in  my  dreams, 
Speeding  before  me,  like  the  race 

To  ocean  of  the  mountain  streams — 
With  dancing  hair,  and  laughing  eyes, 
That  seem  to  mock  me  as  it  flies. 


MAGDALEN.  67 

VI. 

My  sword — it  slumbers  in  its  sheath  ; 

My  hopes — their  starry  light  is  gone  ; 
My  heart — the  fabled  clock  of  death 

Beats  with  the  same  low,  lingering  tone  : 
And  this,  the  land  of  Magdalen, 

Seems  now  the  only  spot  on  earth 
Where  skies  are  blue  and  flowers  are  green ; 

And  here  I'd  build  my  household  hearth, 
And  breathe  my  song  of  joy,  and  twine 
A  lovely  being's  name  with  mine. 

VII. 
In  vain  !  in  vain  !  the  sail  is  spread ; 

To  sea  !  to  sea  !  my  task  is  there ; 
But  when  among  the  unmourned  dead 

They  lay  me,  and  the  ocean  air 
Brings  tidings  of  my  day  of  doom, 

Mayst  thou  be  then,  as  now  thou  art, 
The  load-star  of  a  happy  home  ; 

In  smile  and  voice,  in  eye  and  heart 
The  same  as  thou  hast  ever  been, 
The  loved,  the  lovely  Magdalen. 


FROM   THE   ITALIAN. 

EYES  with  the  same  blue  witchery  as  those 

Of  Psyche,  which  caught  Love  in  his  own  wiles ; 

Lips  of  the  breath  and  hue  of  the  red  rose, 

That  move  but  with  kind  words  and  sweetest  smiles  ; 

A  power  of  motion  and  of  look,  whose  art 

Throws,  silently,  around  the  wildest  heart 

The  net  it  would  not  break  ;  a  form  which  vies 

With  that  the  Grecian  imaged  in  his  mind, 

And  gazed  upon  in  dreams,  and  sighed  to  find 

His  breathing  marble  could  not  realize. 

Know  ye  this  picture  1     There  is  one  alone 

Can  call  its  pencilled  lineaments  her  own. 

She  whom,  at  morning,  when  the  summer  air 

Wanders,  delighted,  o'er  her  face  of  flowers, 

And  lingers  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 

We  deem  the  Hebe  of  Jove's  banquet  hours ; 


FROM     THE     ITALIAN.  69 

She  who,  at  evening,  when  her  fingers  press 
The  harp,  and  wake  its  harmonies  divine, 
Seems  sweetest-voiced  and  loveliest  of  the  Nine, 
The  minstrel  of  the  bowers  of  happiness, 
She  whom  the  Graces  nurtured — at  her  birth, 
The  sea-born  Goddess  and  the  Huntress  maid, 
Beings  whose  beauty  is  not  of  the  earth, 
Came  from  their  myrtle  home  and  forest  shade, 
Blending  immortal  joy  with  mortal  mirth  : 
And  Dian  said,  "  Fair  sister,  be  she  mine 
In  her  heart's  purity,  in  beauty  thine." 
The  smiling  infant  listened  and  obeyed. 


TRANSLATION 

FROM  THE   GERMAN  OF  GOETHE. 

AGAIN  ye  come,  again  ye  throng  around  me, 
Dim,  shadowy  beings  of  my  boyhood's  dream  ! 

Still  shall  I  bless,  as  then,  your  spell  that  bound  me  ? 
Still  bend  to  mists  and  vapors  as  ye  seem  1 

Nearer  ye  come :  I  yield  me  as  ye  found  me 
In  youth  your  worshipper ;  and  as  the  stream 

Of  air  that  folds  you  in  its  magic  wreaths, 

Flows  by  my  lips,  youth's  joy  my  bosom  breathes. 

Lost  forms  and  loved  ones  ye  are  with  you  bringing, 

And  dearest  images  of  happier  days, 
First-love  and  friendship  in  your  path  upspringing, 

Like  old  tradition's  half-remembered  lays, 


TRANSLATION.  71 

And  long-slept  sorrows  waked,  whose  dirge-like  singing 

Recalls  my  life's  strange  labyrinthine  maze, 
And  names  the  heart-mourned  many  a  stern  doom, 
Ere  their  year's  summer,  summoned  to  the  tomb. 

They  hear  not  these  my  last  songs,  they  whose  greeting 
Gladdened  my  first ;  my  spring-time  friends  have  gone, 

And  gone,  fast  journeying  from  that  place  of  meeting, 
The  echoes  of  their  welcome,  one  by  one. 

Though  stranger  crowds,  my  listeners  since,  are  beating 
Time  to  my  music,  their  applauding  tone 

More  grieves  than  glads  me,  while  the  tried  and  true, 

If  yet  on  earth,  are  wandering  far  and  few. 

A  longing  long  unfelt,  a  deep-drawn  sighing 
For  the  far  Spirit-World  o'erpowers  me  now  ; 

My  song's  faint  voice  sinks  fainter,  like  the  dying 
Tones  of  the  wind-harp  swinging  from  the  bough, 

And  my  changed  heart  throbs  warm,  no  more  denying 
Tears  to  my  eyes,  or  sadness  to  my  brow  : 

The  near  afar  off  seems,  the  distant  nigh, 

The  now  a  dream,  the  past  reality. 


WOMAN. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  LADY. 

LADY,  although  we  have  not  met, 

And  may  not  meet,  beneath  the  sky  ; 

And  whether  thine  are  eyes  of  jet, 

Gray,  or  dark  blue,  or  violet, 
Or  hazel — heaven  knows,  not  I ; 

Whether  around  thy  cheek  of  rose 

A  maiden's  glowing  locks  are  curled 
And  to  some  thousand  kneeling  beaux, 
Thy  frown  is  cold  as  winter's  snows, 
Thy  smile  is  worth  a  world ; 


WOMAN.  78 

Or  whether,  past  youth's  joyous  strife, 

The  calm  of  thought  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  thou  art  in  thy  noon  of  life, 
Loving  and  loved,  a  happy  wife, 

And  happier  mother  now, 

I  know  not :  but,  whate'er  thou  art, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  were  mine  the  spell, 

To  call  Fate's  joys  or  blunt  his  dart, 

There  should  not  be  one  hand  or  heart 
But  served  or  wished  thee  well. 

For  thou  art  Woman — with  that  word 
Life's  dearest  hopes  and  memories  come, 

Truth,  Beauty,  Love — in  her  adored, 

And  earth's  lost  Paradise  restored 
In  the  green  bower  of  home. 

What  is  man's  love  1     His  vows  are  broke, 

Even  while  his  parting  kiss  is  warm ; 
But  woman's  love  all  change  will  mock, 
And,  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak, 

Cling  closest  in  the  storm. 
4 


74  WOMAN. 

And  well  the  Poet  at  her  shrine 

May  bend,  and  worship  while  he  woos  ; 

To  him  she  is  a  thing  divine, 

The  inspiration  of  his  line, 
His  Sweetheart  and  his  Muse. 

If  to  his  song  the  echo  rings 

Of  Fame — 'tis  woman's  voice  he  hears ; 
If  ever  from  his  lyre's  proud  strings 
Flow  sounds  like  rush  of  angel  wings, 
'Tis  that  she  listens  while  he  sings, 

With  blended  smiles  and  tears  : 

Smiles — tears— whose  blessed  and  blessing  power, 

Like  sun  and  dew  o'er  summer's  tree, 
Alone  keeps  green  through  Time's  long  hour, 
That  frailer  thing  than  leaf  or  flower, 
A  Poet's  immortality. 


1824. 


A  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

FOR  THE  ALBUM  OF  MISS  *  *  » ,  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  HER  FATHER. 

"  A  LADY  asks  the  Minstrel's  rhyme." 
A  Lady  asks  1     There  was  a  time 
When,  musical  as  play-bell's  chime 

To  wearied  boy, 
That  sound  would  summon  dreams  sublime 

Of  pride  and  joy. 

But  now  the  spell  hath  lost  its  sway, 
Life's  first-born  fancies  first  decay, 
Gone  are  the  plumes  and  pennons  gay 

Of  young  Romance ; 
There  linger  but  her  ruins  gray, 

And  broken  lance. 


76  A    POET'S    DAUGHTER. 

'Tis  a  new  world — no  more  to  maid, 
Warrior,  or  bard,  is  homage  paid  ; 
The  bay-tree's,  laurel's,  myrtle's  shade, 

Men's  thoughts  resign ; 
Heaven  placed  us  here  to  vote  and  trade, 

Twin  tasks  divine ! 


"  'Tis  youth,  'tis  beauty  asks  ;  the  green 
And  growing  leaves  of  seventeen 
Are  round  her ;  and,  half  hid,  half  seen, 

A  violet  flower, 

Nursed  by  the  virtues  she  hath  been 
From  childhood's  hour." 


Blind  passion's  picture — yet  for  this 
We  woo  the  life-long  bridal  kiss, 
And  blend  our  every  hope  of  bliss 

With  hers  we  love  ; 
Unmindful  of  the  serpent's  hiss 

In  Eden's  grove. 


A     POETS     DAUGHTER. 

Beauty — the  fading  rainbow's  pride, 
Youth — 'twas  the  charm  of  her  who  died 
At  dawn,  and  by  her  coffin's  side 

A  grandsire  stands, 
Age-strengthened,  like  the  oak  storm-tried 

Of  mountain  lands. 


Youth's  coffin — hush  the  tale  it  tells ! 
Be  silent,  memory's  funeral  bells ! 
Lone  in  one  heart,  her  home,  it  dwells 

Untold  till  death, 
And  where  the  grave-mound  greenly  swells 

O'er  buried  faith. 


"  But  what  if  hers  are  rank  and  power, 
Armies  her  train,  a  throne  her  bower, 
A  kingdom's  gold  her  marriage  dower, 

Broad  seas  and  lands  1 
What  if  from  bannered  hall  and  tower 

A  queen  commands  f 


77 


78 

A  queen  ?     Earth's  regal  moons  have  set. 

Where  perished  Marie  Antoinette  ? 

Where's  Bordeaux's  mother  1     Where   the  jet- 

Black  Haytian  dame  ? 
And  Lusitania's  coronet? 

And  Angouleme  ? 

Empires  to-day  are  upside  down, 
The  castle  kneels  before  the  town, 
The  monarch  fears  a  printer's  frown, 

A  brickbat's  range ; 
Give  me,  in  preference  to  a  crown, 

Five  shillings  change. 

"  But  her  who  asks,  though  first  among 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
The  birthright  of  a  spell  more  strong 

Than  these  hath  brought  her ; 
She  is  your  kinswoman  in  song, 

A  Poet's  daughter." 


79 


A  Poet's  daughter  ?     Could  I  claim 
The  consanguinity  of  fame, 
Veins  of  my  intellectual  frame ! 

Your  blood  would  glow 
Proudly  to  sing  that  gentlest  name 

Of  aught  below. 

A  Poet's  daughter — dearer  word 
Lip  hath  not  spoke  nor  listener  heard, 
Pit  theme  for  song  of  bee  and  bird 

From  morn  till  even, 
And  wind-harp  by  the  breathing  stirred 

Of  star-lit  heaven. 


My  spirit's  wings  are  weak,  the  fire 

Poetic  comes  but  to  expire, 

Her  name  needs  not  my  humble  lyre 

To  bid  it  live ; 
She  hath  already  from  her  sire 

All  bard  can  give.         / 


CONNECTICUT. 


FROM  AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM. 


"  The  woods  in  which  we  had  dwelt  pleasantly  rustled  their  green 
leaves  in  the  song,  and  our  streams  were  there  with  the  sound  of  aU 
their  waters."  MONTROSE. 


still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 

That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave  ; 

'Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave  ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands  are  bold  and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave ; 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  heaven  they  pray, 

Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 


CONNECTICUT.  81 

II. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws  denominated  blue ; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong ;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  West. 


III. 


A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear ; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things  ;  and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they'd  meet  him  with — wo  know 
4* 


82  CONNECTICUT. 

IV. 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty  ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die  : 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  and  peddling ; 


V. 

Or  wandering  through  the  southern  countries,  teaching 
The  ABC  from  Webster's  spelling-book ; 

Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 
And  gaining  by  what  they  call  "  hook  and  crook," 

And  what  the  moralists  call  over-reaching, 
A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 

Upon  them  with  as  favorable  eyes 

As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  paradise. 


CONNECTICUT.  8£ 

VI. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farmhouse  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honor  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave, 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 


VII. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny ; 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye ; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll, 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history, 
And  tales  of  love  and  war — listen  to  one 
Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  Stark  of  Bennington, 


84  CONNEC  TICUT. 

VIII. 

When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians  fought, 
Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began  : 

"  Soldiers !  those  German  gentlemen  are  bought 
For  four  pounds  eight  and  sevenpence  per  man, 

By  England's  king ;  a  bargain,  as  is  thought. 

Are  we  worth  more  ?     Let's  prove  it  now  we  can ; 

For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of  sun, 

OB  MARY  STARK'S  A  WIDOW."     It  was  done. 


IX. 

Hers  are  not  Tempo's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayan  vales, 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno ;  yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow ;  and  in  the  autumn  time 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 


CONNECTICUT.  85 


Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 


.       XL 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power ; 
The  maiden  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove, 

The  mother  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower ; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 

Be  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you'll  find  them  there. 


MUSIC. 

TO  A  BOY  OF  FOUR  YEARS  OLD,  ON  HEARING  HIM  PLAY  ON  THE  HARP. 

SWEET  boy !  before  thy  lips  can  learn 
In  speech  thy  wishes  to  make  known, 

Are  "  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn" 
Heard  in  thy  music's  tone. 

Were  Genius  tasked  to  prove  the  might, 

The  magic  of  her  hidden  spell, 
She  well  might  name  thee  with  delight 

As  her  own  miracle. 

Who  that  hath  heard,  from  summer  trees, 
The  sweet  wild  song  of  summer  birds, 

When  morning  to  the  far-off  breeze 
Whispers  her  bidding  words ; 


MUSIC.  87 

Or  listened  to  the  bird  of  night, 

The  minstrel  of  the  starlight  hours, 
Companion  of  the  firefly's  flight, 

Cool  dews,  and  closed  flowers ; 

But  deemed  that  spirits  of  the  air 

Had  left  their  native  homes  in  heaven, 

And  that  the  music  warbled  there 
To  earth  a  while  was  given? 

For  with  that  music  came  the  thought 

That  life's  young  purity  wras  theirs, 
And  love,  all  artless  and  untaught, 

Breathed  in  their  woodland  airs. 

And  when,  sweet  boy !  thy  baby  fingers 
Wake  sounds  of  heaven's  own  harmony, 

How  welcome  is  the  thought  that  lingers 
Upon  thy  lyre  and  thee  ! 

It  calls  up  visions  of  past  days, 

When  life  was  infancy  and  song 
To  us,  and  old  remembered  lays, 

Unheard,  unheeded  long ; 


88  MUSIC. 

Revive  in  joy  or  grief  within  us, 

Like  lost  friends  wakened  from  their  sleep, 
With  all  their  early  power  to  win  us 

Alike  to  smile  or  weep. 

And  when  we  gaze  upon  that  face, 
Blooming  in  innocence  and  truth, 

And  mark  its  dimpled  artlessness, 
Its  beauty  and  its  youth ; 

We  think  of  better  worlds  than  this, 

Of  other  beings  pure  as  thou, 
Who  breathe,  on  winds  of  Paradise, 

Music  as  thine  is  now. 

And  know  the  only  emblem  meet 
Of  that  pure  Faith  the  heart  adores, 

To  be  a  child  like  thee,  whose  feet 
Are  strangers  on  Life's  shores. 


rary-  j 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 

LIEUT.  WILLIAM  HOWARD  ALLEN, 

OF     THE    AMERICAN    NAVY. 

HE  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the  brave, 
And  wept  as  nations  weep  their  cherished  dead, 
With  bitter,  but  proud  tears,  and  o'er  his  head 
The  eternal  flowers  whose  root  is  in  the  grave, 
The  flowers  of  Fame,  are  beautiful  and  green ; 
And  by  his  grave's  side  pilgrim  feet  have  been, 
And  blessings,  pure  as  men  to  martyrs  give, 
Have  there  been  breathed  by  those  he  died  to  save. 
— Pride  of  his  country's  banded  chivalry, 
His  fame  their  hope,  his  name  their  battle  cry ; 
He  lived  as  mothers  wish  their  sons  to  live, 
He  died  as  fathers  wish  their  sons  to  die. 


90  ON     THE     DEATH     OF     LIEUT.     ALLEN. 

If  on  the  grief-worn  cheek  the  hues  of  bliss, 
Which  fade  when  all  we  love  is  in  the  tomb, 
Could  ever  know  on  earth  a  second  bloom, 
The  memory  of  a  gallant  death  like  his 
Would  call  them  into  being ;  but  the  few, 
Who  as  their  friend,  their  brother,  or  their  son, 
His  kind  warm  heart  and  gentle  spirit  knew, 
Had  long  lived,  hoped,  and  feared  for  him  alone ; 
His  voice  their  morning  music,  and  his  eye 
The  only  starlight  of  their  evening  sky, 
Till  even  the  sun  of  happiness  seemed  dim, 
And  life's  best  joys  were  sorrows  but  with  him  ; 
And  when,  the  burning  bullet  in  his  breast, 
He  dropped,  like  summer  fruit  from  off  the  bough, 
There  was  one  heart  that  knew  and  loved  him  best — 
It  was  a  mother's — and  is  broken  now. 


FANNY. 


"  A  fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds." 

MILTON. 


FANNY. 

I. 
FANNY  was  younger  once  than  she  is  now, 

And  prettier  of  course  :  I  do  not  mean 
To  say  that  there  are  wrinkles  on  her  brow ; 

Yet,  to  be  candid,  she  is  past  eighteen— 
Perhaps  past  twenty — but  the  girl  is  shy 
About  her  age,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I 

II. 

Should  get  myself  in  trouble  by  revealing 
A  secret  of  this  sort ;  I  have  too  long 

Loved  pretty  women  with  a  poet's  feeling, 
And  when  a  boy,  in  day  dream  and  in  song, 

Have  knelt  me  down  and  worshipped  them :  alas  ! 

They  never  thanked  me  for  't — but  let  that  pass. 


94  FANNY. 

III. 

I've  felt  full  many  a  heart-ache  in  my  day, 
At  the  mere  rustling  of  a  muslin  gown, 

And  caught  some  dreadful  colds,  I  blush  to  say, 
While  shivering  in  the  shade  of  beauty's  frown. 

They  say  her  smiles  are  sunbeams — it  may  be — 

But  never  a  sunbeam  would  she  throw  on  me. 

IV. 

But  Fanny's  is  an  eye  that  you  may  gaze  on 
For  half  an  hour,  without  the  slightest  harm  ; 

E'en  when  she  wore  her  smiling  summer  face  on 
There  was  but  little  danger,  and  the  charm 

That  youth  and  wealth  once  gave,  has  bade  farewell. 

Hers  is  a  sad,  sad  tale — 'tis  mine  its  woes  to  tell. 

V. 

Her  father  kept,  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
A  retail  dry-good  shop  in  Chatham-street, 

And  nursed  his  little  earnings,  sure  though  slow, 
Till,  having  mustered  wherewithal  to  meet 

The  gaze  of  the  great  world,  he  breathed  the  air 

Of  Pearl-street — and  "  set  up"  in  Hanover-square. 


FANNY.  95 

VI. 

Money  is  power,  'tis  said — I  never  tried  ; 

I'm  but  a  poet — and  bank-notes  to  me 
Are  curiosities,  as  closely  eyed, 

Whene'er  I  get  them,  as  a  stone  would  be, 
Tossed  from  the  moon  on  Doctor  Mitchill's  table, 
Or  classic  brickbat  from  the  tower  of  Babel. 

VII. 
But  he  I  sing  of  well  has  known  and  felt 

That  money  hath  a  power  and  a  dominion  ; 
For  when  in  Chatham-street  the  good  man  dwelt, 

No  one  would  give  a  sous  for  his  opinion. 
And  though  his  neighbors  were  extremely  civil, 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  they  thought  him — a  poor  devil, 

VIII. 

A  decent  kind  of  person  ;  one  whose  head 

Was  not  of  brains  particularly  full ; 
It  was  not  known  that  he  had  ever  said 

Any  thing  worth  repeating — 'twas  a  dull 
Good,  honest  man — what  Paulding's  muse  would  call 
A  "  cabbage  head" — but  he  excelled  them  all 


96  FANNY. 

IX. 

In  that  most  noble  of  the  sciences, 

The  art  of  making  money  ;  and  he  found 

The  zeal  for  quizzing  him  grew  less  and  less, 
As  he  grew  richer  ;  till  upon  the  ground 

Of  Pearl-street,  treading  proudly  in  the  might 

And  majesty  of  wealth,  a  sudden  light 

X. 

Flashed  like  the  midnight  lightning  on  the  eyes 
Of  all  who  knew  him  ;  brilliant  traits  of  mind, 

And  genius,  clear,  and  countless  as  the  dies 
Upon  the  peacock's  plumage ;  taste  refined, 

Wisdom  and  wit,  were  his — perhaps  much  more. 

'Twas  strange  they  had  not  found  it  out  before. 

XI. 

In  this  quick  transformation,  it  is  true 

That  cash  had  no  small  share  ;  but  there  were  still 
Some  other  causes,  which  then  gave  a  new 

Impulse  to  head  and  heart,  and  joined  to  fill 
His  brain  with  knowledge  ;  for  there  first  he  met 
Th«  editor  of  the  New- York  Gazette, 


FANNY.  97 

XII. 

The  sapient  Mr.  LANG.  The  world  of  him 
Knows  much,  yet  not  one  half  so  much  as  he 

Knows  of  the  world.  Up  to  its  very  brim 
The  goblet  of  his  mind  is  sparkling  free 

With  lore  and  learning.     Had  proud  Sheba's  queeii, 

In  all  her  bloom  and  beauty,  but  have  seen 

XIII. 
This  modern  Solomon,  the  Israelite, 

Earth's  monarch  as  he  was,  had  never  won  her. 
He  would  have  hanged  himself  for  very  spite, 

And  she,  blessed  woman,  might  have  had  the  honor 
Of  some  neat  "  paragraphs" — worth  all  the  lays 
That  Judah's  minstrel  warbled  in  her  praise. 

XIV. 

Her  star  arose  too  soon  ;  but  that  which  swayed 
Th'  ascendant  at  our  merchant's  natal  hour 

Was  bright  with  better  destiny — its  aid 
Led  him  to  pluck  within  the  classic  bower 

Of  bulletins,  the  blossoms  of  true  knowledge : 

And  LANG  supplied  the  loss  of  school  and  college. 


98  FANNY. 

XV. 

For  there  he  learned  the  news  some  minutes  sooner 
Than  others  could ;  and  to  distinguish  well 

The  different  signals,  whether  ship  or  schooner, 
Hoisted  at  Staten  Island ;  and  to  tell 

The  change  of  wind,  and  of  his  neighbor's  fortunes, 

And,  best  of  all — he  there  learned  self-importance. 

XVI. 

Nor  were  these  all  the  advantages  derived 
From  change  of  scene  ;  for  near  his  domicil 

HE  of  the  pair  of  polished  lamps  then  lived, 
And  in  my  hero's  promenades,  at  will, 

Could  he  behold  them  burning — and  their  flame 

Kindled  within  his  breast  the  love  of  fame, 

XVII. 

And  politics,  and  country ;  the  pure  glow 
Of  patriot  ardor,  and  the  consciousness 

That  talents  such  as  his  might  well  bestow 
A  lustre  on  the  city ;  she  would  bless 

His  name ;  and  that  some  service  should  be  done  her, 

He  pledged  "  life,  fortune,  and  his  sacred  honor.'* 


FANNY.  99 

XVIII. 

And  when  the  sounds  of  music  and  of  mirth, 

Bursting  from  Fashion's  groups  assembled  there, 

Were  heard,  as  round  their  lone  plebeian  hearth 
Fanny  and  he  were  seated — he  would  dare 

To  whisper  fondly  that  the  time  might  come 

When  he  and  his  could  give  as  brilliant  routs  at  home. 

XIX. 

And  oft  would  Fanny  near  that  mansion  linger, 
When  the  cold  winter  moon  was  high  in  heaven, 

And  trace  out,  by  the  aid  of  Fancy's  finger, 
Cards  for  some  future  party,  to  be  given 

When  she,  in  turn,  should  be  a  belle,  and  they 

Had  lived  their  little  hour,  and  passed  away. 

XX. 

There  are  some  happy  moments  in  this  lone 
And  desolate  world  of  ours,  that  well  repay 

The  toil  of  struggling  through  it,  and  atone 
For  many  a  long,  sad  night  and  weary  day. 

They  come  upon  the  mind  like  some  wild  air 

Of  distant  music,  when  we  know  not  where, 


100  FANNY. 

XXI. 

Or  whence,  the  sounds  are  brought  from,  and  their  power, 
Though  brief,  is  boundless.  That  far,  future  home, 

Oft  dreamed  of,  beckons  near — its  rose-wreathed  bower, 
And  cloudless  skies  before  us :  we  become 

Changed  on  the  instant — all  gold  leaf  and  gilding : 

This  is,  in  vulgar  phrase,  called  "  castle  building." 

XXII. 

But  these,  like  sunset  clouds,  fade  soon  ;  'tis  vain 

To  bid  them  linger  longer,  or  to  ask 
On  what  day  they  intend  to  call  again  ; 

And,  surely,  'twere  a  philosophic  task, 
Worthy  a  Mitchill,  in  his  hours  of  leisure, 
To  find  some  means  to  summon  them  at  pleasure. 

XXIII. 

There  certainly  are  powers  of  doing  this, 

In  some  degree  at  least — for  instance,  drinking. 

Champagne  will  bathe  the  heart  a  while  in  bliss, 
And  keep  the  head  a  little  time  from  thinking 

Of  cares  or  creditors — the  best  wine  in  town 

You'll  get  from  Lynch — the  cash  must  be  paid  down. 


FANNY.  10t 

XXIV. 

But  if  you  are  a  bachelor,  like  me, 

And  spurn  all  chains,  even  though  made  of  roses, 
I'd  recommend  segars — there  is  a  free 

And  happy  spirit,  that,  unseen,  reposes 
On  the  dim  shadowy  clouds  that  hover  o'er  you, 
When  smoking  quietly  with  a  warm  fire  before  you. 

XXV. 

Dear  to  the  exile  is  his  native  land, 

In  memory's  twilight  beauty  seen  afar : 

Dear  to  the  broker  is  a  note  of  hand, 
Collaterally  secured — the  polar  star 

Is  dear  at  midnight  to  the  sailor's  eyes, 

And  dear  are  Bristed's  volumes  at  "  half  price  ;" 

XXVI. 

But  dearer  far  to  me  each  fairy  minute 
Spent  in  that  fond  forgetfulness  of  grief; 

There  is  an  airy  web  of  magic  in  it, 
As  in  Othello's  pocket-handkerchief, 

Veiling  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  sorrow, 

The  gathering  gloom  to-day,  the  thunder-cloud  to-morro\f 


102  FANNY. 

XXVII. 

And  these  are  innocent  thoughts — a  man  may  sit 
Upon  a  bright  throne  of  his  own  creation ; 

Untortured  by  the  ghastly  sprites  that  flit 
Around  the  many,  whose  exalted  station 

Has  been  attained  by  means  'twere  pain  to  hint  on, 

Just  for  the  rhyme's  sake — instance  Mr.  Clinton. 

XXVIII. 

He  struggled  hard,  but  not  in  vain,  and  breathes 
The  mountain  air  at  last ;  but  there  are  others 

Who  strove,  like  him,  to  win  the  glittering  wreaths 
Of  power,  his  early  partisans  and  brothers, 

That  linger  yet  in  dust  from  whence  they  sprung, 

Unhonored  and  unpaid,  though,  luckily,  unhung. 

XXIX. 

'Twas  theirs  to  fill  with  gas  the  huge  balloon 
Of  party ;  and  they  hoped,  when  it  arose, 

To  soar  like  eagles  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 

Above  the  gaping  crowd  of  friends  and  foes. 

Alas  !  like  Guille's  car,  it  soared  without  them, 

And  left  them  with  a  mob  to  jeer  and  flout  them. 


FANNY.  103 

XXX. 

Though  Fanny's  moonlight  dreams  were  sweet  as  those 
I've  dwelt  so  long  upon — they  were  more  stable ; 

Hers  were  not  "  castles  in  the  air  "  that  rose 
Based  upon  nothing ;  for  her  sire  was  able, 

As  well  she  knew,  to  "  buy  out "  the  one  half 

Of  Fashion's  glittering  train,  that  nightly  quaff 

XXXI. 

Wine,  wit,  and  wisdom,  at  a  midnight  rout, 
From  dandy  coachmen,  whose  "  exquisite"  grin 

And  "  ruffian  "  lounge  flash  brilliantly  without, 
Down  to  their  brother  dandies  ranged  within, 

Gay  as  the  Brussels  carpeting  they  tread  on, 

And  sapient  as  the  oysters  they  are  fed  on. 

XXXII. 

And  Rumor  (she's  a  famous  liar,  yet 

'Tis  wonderful  how  easy  we  believe  her) 
Had  whispered  he  was  rich,  and  all  he  met 

In  Wall-street,  nodded,  smiled,  and  "  tipped  the  beaver ;" 
All, — from  Mr.  Gelston,  the  collector, 
Down  to  the  broker,  and  the  bank  director. 


104  FANNY. 

XXXIII. 

A  few  brief  years  passed  over,  and  his  rank 
Among  the  worthies  of  that  street  was  fixed ; 

He  had  become  director  of  a  bank, 
And  six  insurance  offices,  and  mixed 

Familiarly,  as  one  among  his  peers, 

With  grocers,  dry-good  merchants,  auctioneers, 

XXXIV. 

Brokers  of  all  grades — stock  and  pawn — and  Jews 
Of  all  religions,  who  at  noonday  form, 

On  'Change,  that  brotherhood  the  moral  muse 
Delights  in,  where  the  heart  is  pure  and  warm, 

And  each  exerts  his  intellectual  force 

To  cheat  his  neighbor — legally,  of  course. 

XXXV. 

And  there  he  shone  a  planetary  star, 
Circled  around  by  lesser  orbs,  whose  beams 

From  his  were  borrowed.     The  simile  is  not  far 
From  truth — for  many  bosom  friends,  it  seems, 

Did  borrow  of  him,  and  sometimes  forget 

To  pay — indeed,  they  have  not  paid  him  yet. 


FANNY.  105 

XXXVI. 

But  these  he  deemed  as  trifles,  when  each  mouth 
Was  open  in  his  praise,  and  plaudits  rose 

Upon  his  willing  ear,  "  like  the  sweet  south 
Upon  a  bank  of  violets,"  from  those 

Who  knew  his  talents,  virtues,  and  so  forth ; 

That  is — knew  how  much  money  he  was  worth. 

-     XXXVII. 

Alas !  poor  human  nature ;  had  he  been 

But  satisfied  with  this,  his  golden  days 
Their  setting  hour  of  darkness  had  not  seen, 

And  he  might  still  (in  the  mercantile  phrase) 
Be  living  "  in  good  order  and  condition ;" 
But  he  was  ruined  by  that  jade  Ambition, 

XXXVIII. 

"  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds," 

Whose  spell,  like  whiskey,  your  true  patriot  liquor, 
To  politics  the  lofty  hearts  inclines 

Of  all,  from  Clinton  down  to  the  bill-sticker 
Of  a  ward-meeting.     She  came  slyly  creeping 

To  his  bedside,  where  he  lay  snug  and  sleeping. 
5* 


106  FANNY. 

XXXIX. 

Her  brow  was  turbancd  with  a  bucktail  wreath, 
A  broach  of  terrapin  her  bosom  wore, 

Tompkins's  letter  was  just  seen  beneath 
Her  arm,  and  in  her  hand  on  high  she  bore 

A  National  Advocate — Pell's  polite  Review 

Lay  at  her  feet — 'twas  pommeled  black  and  blue. 

XL. 

She  was  in  fashion's  elegant  undress, 

Muffled  from  throat  to  ankle ;  and  her  hair 

Was  all  "  en  papillotes"  each  auburn  tress 

Prettily  pinned  apart.     You  well  might  swear 

She  was  no  beauty  ;  yet,  when  "made  up,"  ready 

For  visitors,  'twas  quite  another  lady. 

XLI. 

Since  that  wise  pedant,  Johnson,  was  in  fashion, 
Manners  have  changed  as  well  as  moons  ;  and  he 

Would  fret  himself  once  more  into  a  passion, 
Should  he  return  (which  heaven  forbid !),  and  see, 

How  strangely  from  his  standard  dictionary, 

The  meaning  of  some  words  is  made  to  vary. 


FANNY.  ]  07 

XLII. 

For  instance,  an  undress  at  present  means 

The  wearing  a  pelisse,  a  shawl,  or  so ; 
Or  any  thing  you  please,  in  short,  that  screens 

The  face,  and  hides  the  form  from  top  to  toe ; 
Of  power  to  brave  a  quizzing-glass,  or  storm — 
'Tis  worn  in  summer,  when  the  weather's  warm. 

XLIII. 

But  a  full  dress  is  for  a  winter's  night. 

The  most  genteel  is  made  of  "  woven  air ;" 
That  kind  of  classic  cobweb,  soft  and  light, 

Which  Lady  Morgan's  Ida  used  to  wear. 
And  ladies,  this  aerial  manner  dressed  in, 
Look  Eve-like,  angel-like,  and  interesting. 

XLIV. 

But  Miss  Ambition  was,  as  I  was  saying, 

"  Deskalillee" — his  bedside  tripping  near, 

And,  gently  on  his  nose  her  fingers  laying, 

She  roared  out  Tammany  !  in  his  frighted  ear. 
The  potent  word  awoke  him  from  his  nap, 
And  then  she  vanished,  whispering  verlum  sap. 


108  FANNY. 

XLV. 

The  last  words  were  beyond  his  comprehension 
For  he  had  left  off  schooling,  ere  the  Greek 

Or  Latin  classics  claimed  his  mind's  attention : 
Besides,  he  often  had  been  heard  to  speak 

Contemptuously  of  all  that  sort  of  knowledge, 

Taught  so  profoundly  in  Columbia  College. 

XLVI. 

We  owe  the  ancients  something.     You  have  read 
Their  works,  no  doubt — at  least  in  a  translation; 

Yet  there  was  argument  in  what  he  said, 
I  scorn  equivocation  or  evasion, 

And  own  it  must,  in  candor,  be  confessed, 

They  were  an  ignorant  set  of  men  at  best. 

XLVII. 

'Twas  their  misfortune  to  be  bom  too  soon 
By  centuries,  and  in  the  wrong  place  too ; 

They  never  saw  a  steamboat,  or  balloon, 
Velocipede,  or  Quarterly  Review  j 

Or  wore  a  pair  of  Baehr's  black  satin  breeches, 

Or  read  an  Almanac,  or  Clinton's  Speeches. 


FANNY.  109 

XLVIII. 

In  short,  in  every  thing  we  far  outshine  them, — 
Art,  science,  taste,  and  talent ;  and  a  stroll 

Through  this  enlightened  city  would  refine  them 
More  than  ten  years  hard  study  of  the  whole 

Their  genius  has  produced  of  rich  and  rare — 

God  bless  the  Corporation  and  the  Mayor ! 

XLIX. 
In  sculpture,  we've  a  grace  the  Grecian  master, 

Blushing,  had  owned  his  purest  model  lacks ; 
We've  Mr.  Bogart  in  the  best  of  plaster, 

The  Witch  of  Endor  in  the  best  of  wax, 
Besides  the  head  of  Franklin  on  the  roof 
Of  Mr.  Lang,  both  jest  and  weather  proof. 

L. 

And  on  our  City  Hall  a  Justice  stands ; 

A  neater  form  was  never  made  of  board, 
Holding  majestically  in  her  hands 

A  pair  of  steelyards  and  a  wooden  sword  ; 
And  looking  down  with  complaisant  civility — 
Emblem  of  dignity  and  durability. 


110  FANNY. 

LI. 

In  painting,  we  have  Trumbull's  proud  chef  cCoeuvre, 
Blending  in  one  the  funny  and  the  fine : 

His  "  Independence"  will  endure  forever, 
And  so  will  Mr.  Allen's  lottery  sign  ; 

And  all  that  grace  the  Academy  of  Arts, 

From  Dr.  Hosack's  face  to  Bonaparte's. 

LII. 

In  architecture,  our  unrivalled  skill 

Cullen's  magnesian  shop  has  loudly  spoken 

To  an  admiring  world ;  and  better  still 
Is  Gautier's  fairy  palace  at  Hoboken. 

In  music,  we've  the  Euterpian  Society, 

And  amateurs,  a  wonderful  variety. 

LIII. 

In  physic,  we  have  Francis  and  M'Neven, 

Famed  for  long  heads,  short  lectures,  and  long  bills ; 

And  Quackenboss  and  others,  who  from  heaven 
Were  rained  upon  us  in  a  shower  of  pills  ; 

They'd  beat  the  deathless  Esculapius  hollow, 

And  make  a  starveling  druggist  of  Apollo. 


FANNY.  Ill 

LIV. 

A»d  who,  that  ever  slumbered  at  the  Forum, 

But  owns  the  first  of  orators  we  claim  : 
Cicero  would  have  bowed  the  knee  before  'em — 

And  for  law  eloquence,  we've  Doctor  Graham. 
Compared  with  him,  their  Justins  and  Quintilians 
Had  dwindled  into  second  rate  civilians. 

LV. 

For  purity  and  chastity  of  style, 

There's  Pell's  preface,  and  puffs  by  Home  and  Waite. 
For  penetration  deep,  and  learned  toil, 

And  all  that  stamps  an  author  truly  great, 
Have  we  not  Bristed's  ponderous  tomes  ?  a  treasure 
For  any  man  of  patience  and  of  leisure. 

LVI. 

Oxonian  Bristed !  many  a  foolscap  page 

He,  in  his  time,  hath  written,  and  moreover 

(What  few  will  do  in  this  degenerate  age) 

Hath  read  his  own  works,  as  you  may  discover 

By  counting  his  quotations  from  himself— 

You'll  find  the  books  on  any  auction  shelf. 


112  FANNY. 

LVII. 

I  beg  Great  Britain's  pardon ;  'tis  not  meant 
To  claim  this  Oxford  scholar  as  our  own : 

That  he  was  shipped  off  here  to  represent 
Her  literature  among  us,  is  well  known  ; 

And  none  could  better  fill  the  lofty  station 

Of  Learning's  envoy  from  the  British  nation. 

LVIII. 

We  fondly  hope  that  he  will  be  respected 
At  home,  and  soon  obtain  a  place  or  pension. 

We  should  regret  to  see  him  live  neglected, 

Like  Fearon,  Ashe,  and  others  we  could  mention 

Who  paid  us  friendly  visits  to  abuse 

Our  country,  and  find  food  for  the  reviews. 

LIX. 

But  to  return. — The  Heliconian  waters 

Are  sparkling  in  their  native  fount  no  more, 

And  after  years  of  wandering,  the  nine  daughters 
Of  poetry  have  found  upon  our  shore 

A  happier  home,  and  on  their  sacred  shrines 

Glow  in  immortal  ink,  the  polished  lines 


FANNY.  113 

LX. 

Of  Woodworth,  Doctor  Farmer,  Moses  Scott — 
Names  hallowed  by  their  reader's  sweetest  smile ; 

And  who  that  reads  at  all  has  read  them  not  ? 
"That  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle," 

Homer,  was  well  enough ;  but  would  he  ever 

Have  written,  think  ye,  the  Backwoodsman  1  never. 

LXI. 

Alas !  for  Paulding — I  regret  to  see 

In  such  a  stanza  one  whose  giant  powers, 

Seen  in  their  native  element,  will  be 

Known  to  a  future  age,  the  pride  of  ours. 

There  is  none  breathing  who  can  better  wield 

The  battle-axe  of  satire.     On  its  field 

LXII. 

The  wreath  he  fought  for  he  has  bravely  won, 
Long  be  its  laurel  green  around  his  brow  ! 

It  is  too  true,  Pm  somewhat  fond  of  fun 
And  jesting ;  but  for  once  I'm  serious  now. 

Why  is  he  sipping  weak  Castalian  dews  ] 

The  muse  has  damned  him — let  him  damn  the  muse. 


114  FANNY. 

LXIII. 

But  to  return  once  more :  the  ancients  fought 

Some  tolerable  battles.     Marathon 
Is  still  a  theme  for  high  and  holy  thought, 

And  many  a  poet's  lay.     We  linger  on 
The  page  that  tells  us  of  the  brave  and  free, 
And  reverence  thy  name,  unmatched  Thermopylae. 

LXIV. 

And  there  were  spirited  troops  in  other  days — 
The  Roman  legion  and  the  Spartan  band, 

And  Swartwout's  gallant  corps,  the  Iron  Grays — 
Soldiers  who  met  their  foemen  hand  to  hand, 

Or  swore,  at  least,  to  meet  them  undismayed ; 

Yet  what  were  these  to  General  Laight's  brigade 

LXV. 

Of  veterans  ?  nursed  in  that  Free  School  of  glory, 
The  New- York  State  Militia.     From  Bellevue, 

E'en  to  the  Battery  flagstaff,  the  proud  story 
Of  their  manoauvres  at  the  last  review 

Has  rang  ;  and  Clinton's  "  order"  told  afar 

He  never  led  a  better  corps  to  war. 


FANNY.  115 

LXVI. 

What,  Egypt,  was  thy  magic,  to  the  tricks 

Of  Mr.  Charles,  Judge  Spencer,  or  Van  Buren  ? 

The  first  with  cards,  the  last  in  politics, 

A  conjuror's  fame  for  years  have  been  securing. 

And  who  would  n^v  the  Athenian  dramas  read 

When  he  can  get  "  Wall-street,"  by  Mr  Mead. 

LXVII. 

I  might  say  much  about  our  lettered  men, 

Those  "  grave  and  reverend  seigniors,"  who  compose 

Our  learned  societies — but  here  my  pen 

Stops  short ;  for  they  themselves,  the  rumor  goes, 

The  exclusive  privilege  by  patent  claim, 

Of  trumpeting  (as  the  phrase  is)  their  own  fame. 

LXVIII. 

And,  therefore,  I  am  silent.     It  remains 
To  bless  the  hour  the  Corporation  took  it 

Into  their  heads  to  give  the  rich  in  brains, 
The  worn-out  mansion  of  the  poor  in  pocket, 

Once  "  the  old  almshouse,"  now  a  school  of  wisdom, 

Sacred  to  Scuddcr's  shells  and  Dr.  Griscom. 


116  FANNY. 

LXIX. 

But  whither  am  I  wandering  1     The  esteem 

I  bear  "  this  fair  city  of  the  heart," 
To  me  a  dear  enthusiastic  theme, 

Has  forced  me,  all  unconsciously,  to  part 
Too  long  from  him,  the  hero  of  my  sfcpry. 
Where  was  he  1 — waking  from  his  dream  of  glory. 

LXX. 

And  she,  the  lady  of  his  dream,  had  fled, 

And  left  him  somewhat  puzzled  and  confused. 

He  understood,  however,  half  she  said ; 
And  that  is  quite  as  much  as  we  are  used 

To  comprehend,  or  fancy  worth  repeating, 

In  speeches  heard  at  any  public  meeting. 

LXXI. 

And  the  next  evening  found  him  at  the  Hall ; 

There  he  was  welcomed  by  the  cordial  hand, 
And  met  the  warm  and  friendly  grasp  of  all 

Who  take,  like  watchmen,  there,  their  nightly  stand, 
A  ring,  as  in  a  boxing  match,  procuring, 
To  bet  on  Clinton,  Tompkins,  or  Van  Buren. 


FANNY.  117 

LXXII. 

'Twas  a  propitious  moment ;  for  a  while 
The  waves  of  party  were  at  rest.     Upon 

Each  complacent  brow  wras  gay  good  humor's  smile : 
And  there  was  much  of  wit,  and  jest,  and  pun, 

And  high  amid  the  circle,  in  great  glee, 

Sat  Croaker's  old  acquaintance,  John  Targee. 

LXXIII. 

His  jokes  excelled  the  rest,  and  oft  he  sang 

Songs,  patriotic,  as  in  duty  bound. 
He  had  a  little  of  the  "  nasal  twang 

Heard  at  conventicle  ;"  but  yet  you  found 
In  him  a  dash  of  purity  and  brightness, 
That  spoke  the  man  of  taste  and  of  politeness. 

LXXIV. 

For  he  had  been,  it  seems,  the  bosom  friend 
Of  England's  prettiest  bard,  Anacreon  Moore. 

They  met,  when  he,  the  bard,  came  here  to  lend 
His  mirth  and  music  to  this  favorite  shore ; 

For,  as  the  proverb  saith,  "  birds  of  a  feather 

Instinctively  will  flock  and  fly  together." 


118  FANNY. 

LXXV. 

The  winds  that  wave  thy  cedar  boughs  are  breathing, 
"  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp !"  that  poet's  name ; 
And  the  spray-showers  their  noonday  halos  wreathing 

Around  "  Cohoes,"  are  brightened  by  his  fame. 
And  bright  its  sunbeam  o'er  St.  Lawrence  smiles, 
Her  million  lilies,  and  her  thousand  isles. 

LXXVI. 

We  hear  his  music  in  her  carmen's  lay, 

And  where  her  church-bells  "  toll  the  evening  chime ;" 
Yet  when  to  him  the  grateful  heart  would  pay 

Its  homage,  now,  and  in  all  coming  time, 
Up  springs  a  doubtful  question  whether  we 
Owe  it  to  Tara's  minstrel  or  Targee. 

LXXVII. 

Together  oft  they  wandered — many  a  spot 
Now  consecrated,  as  the  minstrel's  theme, 

By  words  of  beauty  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 

Their  mutual  feet  have  trod  ;  and  when  the  stream 

Of  thought  and  feeling  flowed  in  mutual  speech, 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  how  much  each  taught  to  each. 


FA  NN Y . 

LXXVIII. 
But,  from  the  following  song,  it  would  appear 

That  he  of  Erin  from  the  sachem  took 
The  model  of  his  "  Bower  of  Bendemeer," 

One  of  the  sweetest  airs  in  Lalla  Rookh ; 
'Tis  to  be  hoped  that  in  his  next  edition, 
This,  the  original,  will  find  admission. 


Ill) 


120  FANNY. 


SONG. 

There's  a  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall 

And  the  bucktails  are  swigging  it  all  the  night  long ; 

In  the  time  of  my  boyhood  'twas  pleasant  to  call 
For  a  seat  and  segar,  mid  the  jovial  throng. 

That  beer  and  those  bucktails  I  never  forget ; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  and  unnoticed  by  all, 
I  think,  is  the  porter  cask  foaming  there  yet  1 

Are  the  bucktails  still  swigging  at  Tammany  Hall? 

No  !  the  porter  was  out  long  before  it  was  stale, 
But  some  blossoms  on  many  a  nose  brightly  shone , 

And  the  speeches  inspired  by  the  fumes  of  the  ale, 
Had  the  fragrance  of  porter  when  porter  was  gone. 

How  much  Cozzens  will  draw  of  such  beer  ere  he  dies, 
Is  a  question  of  moment  to  me  and  to  all ; 

For  still  dear  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall. 


FANNY.  121 


SONG 

There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  night  long ; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  'twas  like  a  sweet  dream 
To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 

That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget ; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 
I  think,  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet  ? 

Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemeer  ? 

No  !  the  rosejs  soon  withered  that  hung  o'er  the  wave, 
But  some  blossoms  were  gathered  while  freshly  they 
shone ; 

And  a  dew  was  distilled  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 
All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight  ere  it  dies, 

An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year ; 
Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  my  eyes, 

Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer. 
6 


122  FANNY. 

LXXIX. 

For  many  months  my  hero  ne'er  neglected 
To  take  his  ramble  there,  and  soon  found  out, 

In  much  less  time  than  one  could  have  expected, 
What  'twas  they  all  were  quarrelling  about. 

He  learned  the  party  countersigns  by  rote, 

And  when  to  clap  his  hands,  and  how  to  vote. 

LXXX. 

He  learned  that  Clinton  became  Governor 

Somehow  by  chance,  when  we  were  all  asleep  ; 

That  he  had  neither  sense,  nor  talent,  nor 
Any  good  quality,  and  would  not  keep 

His  place  an  hour  after  the  next  election — 

So  powerful  was  the  voice  of  disaffection. 

LXXXI. 

That  he  was  a  mere  puppet  made  to  play 

A  thousand  tricks,  while  Spencer  touched  the  springs- 
Spencer,  the  mighty  Warwick  of  his  day, 

"  That  setter  up,  and  puller  down  of  kings," 
Aided  by  Miller,  Pell,  and  Doctor  Graham, 
And  other  men  of  equal  worth  and  fame. 


FANNY.  1 23 

LXXX11. 

And  that  he'd  set  the  people  at  defiance, 
By  placing  knaves  and  fools  in  public  stations ; 

And  that  his  works  in  literature  and  science 
Were  but  a  schoolboy's  web  of  misquotations ; 

And  that  he'd  quoted  from  the  devil  even — 

"  Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven." 

LXXXIII. 

To  these  authentic  facts  each  bucktail  swore ; 

But  Clinton's  friends  averred,  in  contradiction, 
They  were  but  fables,  told  by  Mr.  Noah, 

Who  had  a  privilege  to  deal  in  fiction, 
Because  he'd  written  travels,  and  a  melo- 
Drama  ;  and  was,  withal,  a  pleasant  fellow* 

LXXXIV. 

And  they  declared  that  Tompkins  was  no  better 
Than  he  should  be ;  that  he  had  borrowed  money, 

And  paid  it — not  in  cash — but  with  a  letter ; 
And  though  some  trifling  service  he  had  done,  he 

Still  wanted  spirit,  energy,  and  fire ; 

And  was  disliked  by — Mr.  M'Intyre. 


124  FANNY. 

LXXXV. 

In  short,  each  one  with  whom  in  conversation 
He  joined,  contrived  to  give  him  different  views 

Of  men  and  measures ;  and  the  information 
Which  he  obtained,  but  aided  to  confuse 

His  brain.     At  best,  'twas  never  very  clear ; 

And  now  'twas  turned  with  politics  and  beer. 

LXXXVI. 

And  he  was  puffed,  and  flattered,  and  caressed 
By  all,  till  he  sincerely  thought  that  nature 

Had  formed  him  for  an  alderman  at  least — 
Perhaps,  a  member  of  the  legislature ; 

And  that  he  had  the  talents,  ten  times  over, 

Of  Henry    Meigs,  or  Peter  IT.  Wendovcr. 

LXXXVII. 

The  man  was  mad,  'tis  plain,  and  merits  pity, 
Or  he  had  never  dared,  in  such  a  tone, 

To  speak  of  two  great  persons,  whom  the  city, 
With  pride  and  pleasure,  points  to  as  her  own. 

Men,  wise  in  council,  brilliant  in  debate, 

"  The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state." 


FANNY.  125 

XXXVIII. 

The  one — for  a  pure  style  and  classic  manner, 
Is — Mr.  Sachem  Mooney  far  before. 
The  other,  in  his  speech  about  the  banner, 

Spell-bound  his  audience  until  they  swore 
That  such  a  speech  was  never  heard  till  then, 
And  never  would  be — till  he  spoke  again. 

LXXXIX. 

Though  'twas  presumptuous  in  this  friend  of  ours 
To  think  of  rivalling  these,  I  must  allow 

That  still  the  man  had  talents ;  and  the  powers 
Of  his  capacious  intellect  were  now 

Improved  by  foreign  travel,  and  by  reading, 

And  at  the  Hall  he'd  learned,  of  course,  good  breeding. 

XC. 

He  had  read  the  newspapers  with  great  attention, 
Advertisements  and  all ;  and  Riley's  book 

Of  travels — valued  for  its  rich  invention ; 

And  Day  and  Turner's  Price  Current ;  and  took. 

The  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews ; 

And  also  Colonel  Pell's  ;  and,  to  amuse 


126  FANNY. 

XCI. 

His  leisure  hours  with  classic  tale  and  story, 
Longworth's  Directory,  and  Mead's  Wall-street, 

And  Mr.  Delaplaine's  Expository ; 

And  Mitchill's  scientific  works  complete, 

With  other  standard  books  of  modern  days, 

Lay  on  his  table,  covered  with  green  baize. 

XCII. 
His  travels  had  extended  to  Bath  races ; 

And  Bloomingdale  and  Bergen  he  had  seen, 
And  Harlsem  Heights  ;  and  many  other  places, 

By  sea  and  land,  had  visited ;  and  been, 
In  a  steamboat  of  the  Vice-President's, 
To  Staten-Island  once — for  fifty  cents. 

XCIII. 
And  he  had  dined,  by  special  invitation, 

On  turtle,  with  "the  party"  at  Hoboken; 
And  thanked  them  for  his  card  in  an  oration, 

Declared  to  be  the  shortest  ever  spoken. 
And  he  had  strolled  one  day  o'er  Weehawk  hill : 
A  day  worth  all  the  rest — he  recollects  it  still. 


FANNY.  127 

XCIV. 

Weehawken !     In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 

All  we  adore  of  nature  in  her  wild 
And  frolic  hour  of  infancy,  is  met ; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high 

xcv. 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags,  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 

And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 
The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 

Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 

The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear, 

XCVI. 
Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 

And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force, 
As  the  heart  clings  to  life  ;  and  when  resume 

The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course, 
There  lingers  a  deep  feeling — like  the  moan 
Of  wearied  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  gone. 


128  FANNY. 

XCVII. 
In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 

Ocean,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  burst  before  him ; 
Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 

Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him — 
The  city  bright  below ;  and  far  away, 
Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

;*^  XCVI1I. 

Tall  spire, -apr glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 

And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air ; 
And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 

Green  isle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there 
In  wild  reality.     When  life  is  old, 
And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

XCIX. 
Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  there  one 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's  days 
Of  happiness  were  passed  beneath  that  sun, 

That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 
Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 
Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 


FANNY.  129 

C. 

"  This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know," 

Said  an  old,  worthy  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 

Over  my  shoulder  as  I  wrote ;  "  although 
I  can't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning. 

For  rny  part,  I  have  long  been  a  petitioner 

To  Mr.  John  M'Comb,  the  street-commissioner, 

CI. 

"  That  he  would  think  of  Weehawk,  and  would  lay  it 

Handsomely  out  in  avenue  and  square ; 
Then  tax  the  land,  and  make  its  owners  pay  it 

(As  is  the  usual  plan  pursued  elsewhere) ; 
Blow  up  the  rocks,  and  sell  the  wood  for  fuel — 
'Twould  save  us  many  a  dollar,  and  a  duel." 

CII. 
The  devil  take  you  and  John  M'Comb,  said  I ; 

Lang,  in  its  praise,  has  penned  one  paragraph, 
And  promised  me  another.     I  defy, 

With  such  assistance,  yours  and  the  world's  laugh ; 
And  half  believe  that  Paulding,  on  this  theme, 

Might  be  a  poet — strange  as  it  may  seem. 
6* 


130  FANNY. 

cm. 

For  even  our  traveller  felt,  when  home  returning 
From  that  day's  tour,  as  on  the  deck  he  stood, 

The  fire  of  poetry  within  him  burning ; 
"  Albeit  unused  to  the  rhyming  mood  ;" 

And  with  a  pencil  on  his  knee  he  wrote 

The  following  flaming  lines 


TO  THE  HOBSEBOAT. 


1 
Away — o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking, 

Bark  of  my  hope !  ere  the  evening  be  gone ; 
There's  a  wild,  wild  note  in  the  curlew's  shrieking; 

There's  a  whisper  of  death  in  the  wind's  low  moan. 

2 

Though  blue  and  bright  are  the  heavens  above  me, 
And  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  quiet  sea ; 

And  hearts  I  love,  and  hearts  that  love  me, 
Are  beating  beside  me  merrily, 


FANNY.  131 

3 

Yet,  far  in  the  west,  where  the  day's  faded  roses, 
Touched  by  the  moonbeam,  are  withering  fast; 

Where  the  half-seen  spirit  of  twilight  reposes, 
Hymning  the  dirge  of  the  hours  that  are  past, 

4 

There,  where  the  ocean-wave  sparkles  at  meeting 
(As  sunset  dreams  tell  us)  the  kiss  of  the  sky, 

On  his  dim,  dark  cloud  is  the  infant  storm  sitting, 
And  beneath  the  horizon  his  lightnings  are  nigh. 

5 

Another  hour — and  the  death-word  is  given, 
Another  hour — and  his  lightnings  are  here ; 

Speed !  speed  thee,  my  bark ;  ere  the  breeze  of  even 
Is  lost  in  the  tempest,  our  home  will  be  near. 

6 

Then  away  o'er  the  wave,  while  thy  pennant  is  streaming 
In  the  shadowy  light,  like  a  shooting  star ; 

Be  swift  as  the  thought  of  the  wanderer,  dreaming, 
In  a  stranger  land,  of  his  fireside  afar. 


132  FANNY. 

7 
And  while  memory  lingers  I'll  fondly  believe  thee 

A  being  with  life  and  its  best  feelings  warm ; 
And  freely  the  wild  song  of  gratitude  weave  thee, 

Blessed  spirit !  that  bore  me  and  mine  from  the  storm. 


CIV. 
But  where  is  Fanny  1     She  has  long  been  thrown 

Where  cheeks  and  roses  wither — in  the  shade. 
The  age  of  chivalry,  you  know,  is  gone ; 

And  although,  as  1  once  before  have  said, 
U.  love  a  pretty  face  to  adoration, 
[Yet,  still,  I  must  preserve  my  reputation, 

CV. 

As  a  true  dandy  of  the  modern  schools. 

One  hates  to  be  oldfashioned  ;  it  would  be 
A  violation  of  the  latest  rules, 

To  treat  the  sex  with  too  much  courtesy. 
'Tis  not  to  worship  beauty,  as  she  glows 
In  all  her  diamond  lustre,  that  the  beaux. 


FANNY.  133 

CVI. 
Of  these  enlightened  days  at  evening  crowd, 

Where  fashion  welcomes  in  her  rooms  of  light 
That  "  dignified  obedience  ;  that  proud 

Submission,"  which,  in  times  of  yore,  the  knight 
Gave  to  his  "  ladye-love,"  is  now  a  scandal, 
And  practised  only  by  your  Goth  or  Vandal. 

CVII. 

To  lounge  in  graceful  attitudes — be  stared 
Upon,  the  while,  by  every  fair  one's  eye, 

And  stare  one's  self,  in  turn  :  to  be  prepared 
To  dart  upon  the  trays,  as  swiftly  by 

The  dexterous  Simon  bears  them,  and  to  take 

One's  share,  at  least,  of  coffee,  cream,  and  cake, 

CVIII. 
Is  now  to  be  "  the  ton."     The  pouting  lip, 

And  sad,  upbraiding  eye  of  the  poor  girl, 
Who  hardly  of  joy's  cup  one  drop  can  sip, 

Ere  in  the  wild  confusion,  and  the  whirl, 
And  tumult  of  the  hour,  its  bubbles  vanish, 
Must  now  be  disregarded.  One  must  banish 


184  FANNY. 

CIX. 
Those  antiquated  feelings,  that  belong 

To  feudal  manners  and  a  barbarous  age. 
Time  was — when  woman  "  poured  her  soul"  in  song, 

That  all  was  hushed  around.     'Tis  now  "  the  rage" 
To  deem  a  song,  like  bugle-tones  in  battle, 
A  signal-note,  that  bids  each  tongue's  artillery  rattle. 

CX. 

And,  therefore,  I  have  made  Miss  Fanny  wait 
My  leisure.     She  had  changed,  as  you  will  see,  as 

Much  as  her  worthy  sire,  and  made  as  great 
Proficiency  in  taste  and  high  ideas. 

The  careless  smile  of  other  days  was  gone, 

And  every  gesture  spoke  "  q'en  dim-?  on?" 

CXI. 

She  long  had  known  that  in  her  father's  coffers, 

And  also  to  his  credit  in  the  banks, 
There  was  some  cash ;  and  therefore  all  the  offers 

Made  her,  by  gentlemen  of  the  middle  ranks, 
Of  heart  and  hand,  had  spurned,  as  far  beneath 
One  whose  high  destiny  it  was  to  breathe, 


FANNY.  135 

CX1I. 

Ere  long,  the  air  of  Broadway  or  Park  Place, 

And  reign  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land  ; 
Display  in  the  gay  dance  her  form  of  grace, 

Or  touch  with  rounded  arm  and  gloveless  hand, 
Harp  or  piano. — Madame  Catilani 
Forgot  a  while,  and  every  eye  on  Fanny. 

CXIII. 

And  in  anticipation  of  that  hour, 

Her  star  of  hope — her  paradise  of  thought, 

She'd  had  as  many  masters  as  the  power 

Of  riches  could  bestow ;  and  had  been  taught 

The  thousand  nameless  graces  that  adorn 

The  daughters  of  the  wealthy  and  high-born. 

CXIV. 

She  had  been  noticed  at  some  public  places 
(The  Battery,  and  the  balls  of  Mr.  Whale), 

For  hers  was  one  of  those  attractive  faces, 
That  when  you  gaze  upon  them,  never  fail 

To  bid  you  look  again ;  there  was  a  beam, 

A  lustre  in  her  eye,  that  oft  would  seem 


136  FANNY. 

CXV. 

A  little  like  effrontery ;  and  yet 

The  lady  meant  no  harm ;  her  only  aim 

Was  but  to  be  admired  by  all  she  met, 

And  the  free  homage  of  the  heart  to  claim ; 

And  if  she  showed  too  plainly  this  intention, 

Others  have  done  the  same — 'twas  not  of  her  invention, 

CXVI. 

She  shone  at  every  concert ;  where  are  bought 
Tickets  by  all  who  wish  them,  for  a  dollar  ; 

She  patronised  the  Theatre,  and  thought 

That  Wallack  looked  extremely  well  in  Rolla ; 

She  fell  in  love,  as  all  the  ladies  do, 

With  Mr.  Simpson — talked  as  loudly,  too, 

CXVII. 

As  any  beauty  of  the  highest  grade, 
To  the  gay  circle  in  the  box  beside  her  ; 

And  when  the  pit — half  vexed  and  half  afraid, 
With  looks  of  smothered  indignation  eyed  her, 

She  calmly  met  their  gaze,  and  stood  before  'em, 

Smiling  at  vulgar  taste  and  mock  decorum. 


FANNY.  137 

CXVIII. 

And  though  by  no  means  a  las  bleu,  she  had 
For  literature  a  most  becoming  passion ; 

Had  skimmed  the  latest  novels,  good  and  bad. 

And  read  the  Croakers,  when  they  were  in  fashion  ; 

And  Dr.  Chalmers'  sermons  of  a  Sunday ; 

And  Woodworth's  Cabinet,  and  the  new  Salmagundi 

CXIX. 

She  was  among  the  first  and  warmest  patrons 

Of  Griscom's  conversazidnes,  where 
In  rainbow  groups,  our  bright-eyed  maids  and  matrons, 

On  science,  bent,  assemble ;  to  prepare 
Themselves  for  acting  well,  in  life,  their  part 
As  wives  and  mothers.     There  she  learned  by  heart 

cxx. 

Words,  to  the  witches  in  Macbeth  unknown. 

Hydraulics,  hydrostatics,  and  pneumatics, 
Dioptrics,  optics,  katoptrics,  carbon, 

Chlorine,  and  iodine,  and  aerostatics  ; 
Also, — why  frogs,  for  want  of  air,  expire ; 
And  how  to  set  the  Tappan  sea  on  fire ! 


1 38  FANNY. 

CXXI. 

In  all  the  modern  languages  she  was 

Exceedingly  well  versed ;  and  had  devoted, 

To  their  attainment,  far  more  time  than  has, 
By  the  best  teachers  lately,  been  allotted ; 

For  she  had  taken  lessons,  twice  a  week, 

For  a  full  month  in  each ;  and  she  could  speak 

CXXII. 

French  and  Italian,  equally  as  well 

As  Chinese,  Portuguese,  or  German  ;  and, 

What  is  still  more  surprising,  she  could  spell 
Most  of  our  longest  English  words  off-hand ; 

Was  quite  familiar  in  Low  Dutch  and  Spanish, 

And  thought  of  studying  modern  Greek  and  Danish. 

CXXIII. 

She  sang  divinely :  and  in  "  Love's  young  dream," 
And  "Fanny  dearest,"  and  "The  soldier's  bride;" 

And  every  song,  whose  dear  delightful  theme, 
Is  "  Love,  still  love,"  had  oft  till  midnight  tried 

Her  finest,  loftiest  "  pigeon-wings"  of  sound, 

Waking  the  very  watchmen  far  around. 


FANNY.  139 

CXXIV. 
For  her  pure  taste  in  dress,  I  can  appeal  to 

Madame  Bouquet,  and  Monsieur  Pardessus; 
She  was,  in  short,  a  woman  you  mjght  kneel  to, 

If  kneeling  were  in  fashion ;  or  if  you 
Were  wearied  of  your  duns  and  single  life, 
And  wanted  a  few  thousands  and  a  wife. 

cxxv. 


CXXVI. 

"  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night ;" 

Broadway  was  thronged  with  coaches,  and  within 
A  mansion  of  the  best  of  brick,  the  bright 
And  eloquent  eyes  of  beauty  bade  begin 
The  dance ;  and  music's  tones  swelled  wild  and  high, 
And  hearts  and  heels  kept  tune  in  tremulous  ecstacy. 


140  FANNY. 

CXXVII. 

For  many  a  week,  the  note  of  preparation 
Had  sounded  through  all  circles  far  and  near ; 

And  some  five  hundred  cards  of  invitation 
Bade  beau  and  belle  in  full  costume  appear ; 

There  was  a  most  magnificent  variety, 

All  quite  select,  and  of  the  first  society. 

CXXVIII. 
That  is  to  say — the  rich  and  the  well-bred, 

The  arbiters  of  fashion  and  gentility, 
*n  different  grades  of  splendor,  from  the  head 

Down  to  the  very  toe  of  our  nobility : 
Ladies,  remarkable  for  handsome  eyes 
Or  handsome  fortunes — learned  men,  and  wise 

CXXTX. 

Statesmen,  and  officers  of  the  militia — 
In  short,  the  "  first  society" — a  phrase, 

Which  you  may  understand  as  best  may  fit  you ; 
Besides  the  blackest  fiddlers  of  those  days, 

Placed  like  their  sire,  Timotheus,  on  high, 

With  horsehair  fiddle-bows  and  teeth  of  ivory. 


FANNY.  141 

CXXX. 

The  carpets  were  rolled  up  the  day  before, 

And,  with  a  breath,  two  rooms  became  but  one, 

Like  man  and  wife — and,  on  the  polished  floor, 
Chalk  in  the  artists'  plastic  hand  had  done 

All  that  chalk  could  do — in  young  Eden's  bowers 

They  seemed  to  tread,  and  their  feet  pressed  on  flowers. 

CXXXI. 

And  when  the  thousand  lights  of  spermaceti 

Streamed  like  a  shower  of  sunbeams — and  free  tresses 

Wild  as  the  heads  that  waved  them — and  a  pretty 
Collection  of  the  latest  Paris  dresses 

Wandered  about  the  room  like  things  divine, 

It  was,  as  I  was  told,  extremely  fine. 

CXXXII. 
The  love  of  fun,  fine  faces,  and  good  eating, 

Brought  many  who  were  tired  of  self  and  home ; 
And  some  were  there  in  the  high  hope  of  meeting 

The  lady  of  their  bosom's  love — and  some 
To  study  that  deep  science,  how  to  please, 
And  manners  in  high  life,  and  high-souled  courtesies. 


142 


FANNY. 


CXXXIII. 

And  he,  the  hero  of  the  night  was  there, 
In  breeches  of  light  drab,  and  coat  of  blue. 

Taste  was  conspicuous  in  his  powdered  hair, 
And  in  his  frequent  jeux  de  mots,  that  drew 

Peals  of  applauses  from  the  listeners  round, 

Who  were  delighted — as  in  duty  bound. 

CXXXIV. 

'Twas  Fanny's  father — Fanny  near  him  stood, 
Her  power,  resistless — and  her  wish,  command 

And  Hope's  young  promises  were  all  made  good ; 
"  She  reigned  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land ;" 

Her  dream  of  infancy  a  dream  no  more, 

And  then  how  beautiful  the  dress  she  wore ! 

cxxxv. 

Ambition  with  the  sire  had  kept  her  word. 

He  had  the  rose,  no  matter  for  its  thorn, 
And  he  seemed  happy  as  a  summer  bird, 

Careering  on  wet  wing  to  meet  the  morn. 
Some  said  there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  brow ; 
It  might  be — but  we'll  not  discuss  that  now. 


FANNY.  143 

CXXXVI. 

1  left  him  making  rhymes  while  crossing  o'er 

The  broad  and  perilous  wave  of  the  North  River. 

He  bade  adieu,  when  safely  on  the  shore, 
To  poetry — and,  as  he  thought,  for  ever. 

That  night  his  dream  (if  after  deeds  make  known 

Our  plans  in  sleep)  was  an  enchanting  one. 

CXXXVII. 

He  woke,  in  strength,  like  Samson  from  his  slumber. 

And  walked  Broadway,  enraptured  the  next  day ; 
Purchased  a  house  there — I've  forgot  the  number — 

And  signed  a  mortgage  and  a  bond,  for  pay. 
Gave,  in  the  slang  phrase,  Pearl-street  the  go-by, 
And  cut,  for  several  months,  St.  Tammany. 

CXXXVIII. 
Bond,  mortgage,  title-deeds,  and  all  completed, 

He  bought  a  coach  and  half  a  dozen  horses 
(The  bill 's  at  Lawrence's — not  yet  receipted — 

You'll  find  the  amount  upon  his  list  of  losses), 
Then  filled  his  rooms  with  servants,  and  whatever 
Is  necessary  for  a  "genteel  liver." 


144  FANNY. 

CXXXIX. 

This  last  removal  fixed  him :  every  stain 

Was  blotted  from  his  "  household  coat,"  and  he 

Now  "  showed  the  world  he  was  a  gentleman," 
And,  what  is  better,  could  afford  to  be ; 

His  step  was  loftier  than  it  was  of  old, 

His  laugh  less  frequent,  and  his  manner  told 

CXL. 

What  lovers  call  "  unutterable  things  " — 

That  sort  of  dignity  was  in  his  mien 
Which  awes  the  gazer  into  ice,  and  brings 

To  recollection  some  great  man  we've  seen, 
The  Governor,  perchance,  whose  eye  and  frown, 
'Twas  shrewdly  guessed,  would  knock  Judge  Skinner  down. 

CXLI. 

And  for  "  Resources,"  both  of  purse  and  head, 
He  was  a  subject  worthy  Bristed's  pen ; 

Believed  devoutly  all  his  flatterers  said, 

And  deemed  himself  a  Croesus  among  men ; 

Spread  to  the  liberal  air  his  silken  sails, 

And  lavished  guineas  like  a  Prince  of  Wales. 


FANNY.  145 

CXLII. 
He  mingled  now  with  those  within  whose  veins 

The  blood  ran  pure — the  magnates  of  the  land — 
Hailed  them  as  his  companions  and  his  friends, 

And  lent  them  money  and  his  note  of  hand. 
In  every  institution,  whose  proud  aim 
Is  public  good  alone,  he  soon  became 

CXLIII. 

A  man  of  consequence  and  notoriety ; 

His  name,  with  the  addition  of  esquire, 
Stood  high  upon  the  list  of  each  society, 

Whose  zeal  and  watchfulness  the  sacred  fire 
Of  science,  agriculture,  art,  and  learning, 
Keep  on  our  country's  altars  bright  and  burning. 

CXLIV. 

At  Eastburn's  Rooms  he  met,  at  two  each  day, 
With  men  of  taste  and  judgment  like  his  own, 

And  played  '•'  first  fiddle  "  in  that  orchestra 
Of  literary  worthies — and  the  tone 

Of  his  mind's  music,  by  the  listeners  caught, 

Is  traced  among  them  still  in  language  and  in  thought. 


146  FANNY. 

CXLV. 

He  once  made  the  Lyceum  a  choice  present 
Of  muscle  shells  picked  up  at  Rockaway  ; 

And  Mitchill  gave  a  classical  and  pleasant 
Discourse  about  them  in  the  streets  that  day, 

Naming  the  shells,  and  hard  to  put  in  verse  'twas 

"  Testaceous  coverings  of  bivalve  moluscas." 

CXLVI. 

He  was  a  trustee  of  a  Savings  Bank, 

And  lectured  soundly  every  evil  doer, 
Gave  dinners  daily  to  wealth,  power,  and  rank, 

And  sixpence  every  Sunday  to  the  poor ; 
He  was  a  wit,  in  the  pun  making  line — 
Past  fifty  years  of  age,  and  five  feet  nine. 

CXLVII. 

But  as  he  trod  to  grandeur's  pinnacle, 

With  eagle  eye  and  step  that  never  faltered, 

The  busy  tongue  of  scandal  dared  to  tell 

That  cash  was  scarce  with  him,  and  credit  altered ; 

And  while  he  stood  the  envy  of  beholders, 

The  Bank  Directors  grinned,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders, 


FANNY.  147 

CXLVIII. 

And  when  these,  the  Lord  Burleighs  of  the  minute, 
Shake  their  sage  heads,  and  look  demure  and  holy, 

Depend  upon  it  there  is  something  in  it ; 
For  whether  born  of  wisdom  or  of  folly, 

Suspicion  is  a  being  whose  fell  power 

Blights  qyery  thing  it  touches,  fruit  and  flower. 

CXLIX. 

Some  friends  (they  were  his  creditors)  once  hinted 
About  retrenchment  and  a  day  of  doom  ; 

He  thanked  them,  as  no  doubt  they  kindly  meant  it, 
And  made  this  speech,  when  they  had  left  the  room  : 

"  Of  all  the  curses  upon  mortals  sent, 

One's  creditors  are  the  most  impudent ; 

CL. 

"  Now  I  am  one  who  knows  what  he  is  doing, 
And  suits  exactly  to  his  means  his  ends ; 

How  can  a  man  be  in  the  path  to  ruin, 

When  all  the  brokers  are  his  bosom  friends? 

Yet,  on  my  hopes,  and  those  of  my  dear  daughter, 

These  rascals  throw  a  bucket  of  cold  water  ! 


148  FANNY. 

CLI. 

"  They'd  wrinkle  with  deep  cares  the  prettiest  face, 
Pour  gall  and  wormwood  in  the  sweetest  cup, 

Poison  the  very  wells  of  life — and  place, 

Whitechapel  needles,  with  their  sharp  points  up, 

Even  in  the  softest  feather  bed  that  e'er 

Was  manufactured  by  upholsterer." 

CLII. 

This  said — he  journeyed  "  at  his  own  sweet  will,' 
Like  one  of  Wordsworth's  rivers,  calmly  on ; 

But  yet,  at  times,  Reflection,  "  in  her  still 

Small  voice,"  would  whisper,  something  must  be  done 

lie  asked  advice  of  Fanny,  and  the  maid 

Promptly  and  duteously  lent  her  aid. 

CLIII. 

She  told  him,  with  that  readiness  of  mind 
And  quickness  of  perception  which  belong 

Exclusively  to  gentle  womankind, 

That  to  submit  to  slanderers  was  wrong, 

And  the  best  plan  to  silence  and  admonish  them, 

Would  be  to  give  "a  party" — and  astonish  them. 


FANNY.  149 

CLIV. 
The  hint  was  taken — and  the  party  given ; 

And  Fanny,  as  I  said  some  pages  since, 
Was  there  in  power  and  loveliness  that  even, 

And  he,  her  sire,  demeaned  him  like  a  prince, 
And  all  was  joy — it  looked  a  festival, 
Where  pain  might  smooth  his  brow,  and  grief  her  smiles 

recall. 

CLV. 

But  Fortune,  like  some  others  of  her  sex, 
Delights  in  tantalizing  and  tormenting ; 

One  day  we  feed  upon  their  smiles — the  next 
Is  spent  in  swearing,  sorrowing,  and  repenting. 

(If  in  the  last  four  lines  the  author  lies, 

He's  always  ready  to  apologize.) 

CLVI. 
Eve  never  walked  in  Paradise  more  pure 

Than  on  that  morn  when  Satan  played  the  devil 
With  her  and  all  her  race.     A  love-sick  wooer 

Ne'er  asked  a  kinder  maiden,  or  more  civil, 
Than  Cleopatra  was  to  Antony 
The  day  she  left  him  on  the  Ionian  sea. 


150  V  ANN  Y. 

CLVII. 

The  serpent — loveliest  in  his  coiled  ring, 

With  eye  that  charms,  and  beauty  that  outvies 

The  tints  of  the  rainbow — bears  upon  his  sting 
The  deadliest  venom.     Ere  the  dolphin  dies 

Its  hues  are  brightest.     Like  an  infant's  breath 

Are  tropic  winds,  before  the  voice  of  death 

CLVIII. 
Is  heard  upon  the  waters,  summoning 

The  midnight  earthquake  from  its  sleep  of  years 
To  do  its  task  of  wo.     The  clouds  that  fling 

The  lightning,  brighten  ere  the  bolt  appears  ; 
The  pantings  of  the  warrior's  heart  are  proud 
Upon  that  battle  mom  whose  night-dews  wet  his  shroud ; 

CLIX. 

The  sun  is  loveliest  as  he  sinks  to  rest ; 

The  leaves  of  autumn  smile  when  fading  fast ; 
The  swan's  last  song  is  sweetest — and  the  best 

Of  Meigs's  speeches,  doubtless,  was  his  last. 
And  thus  the  happiest  scene,  in  these  my  rhymes, 
Closed  with  a  crash,  and  ushered  in — hard  times. 


FANNY.  151 

CLX. 

St.  Paul's  tolled  one — and  fifteen  minutes  after 

Down  came,  by  accident,  a  chandelier; 
The  mansion  tottered  from  the  floor  to  rafter ! 

Up  rose  the  cry  of  agony  and  fear  ! 
And  there  was  shrieking,  screaming,  bustling,  fluttering, 
Beyond  the  power  of  writing  or  of  uttering. 

CLXI. 
The  company  departed,  and  neglected 

To  say  good-by — the  father  stormed  and  swore — 
The  fiddlers  grinned — the  daughter  looked  dejected — 

The  flowers  had  vanished  from  the  polished  floor, 
And  both  betook  them  to  their  sleepless  beds, 
With  hearts  and  prospects  broken,  but  no  heads. 

CLXII. 
The  desolate  relief  of  free  complaining 

Came  with  the  morn,  and  with  it  came  bad  weather ; 
The  wind  was  east-northeast,  and  it  was  raining 

Throughout  that  day,  which,  take  it  altogether, 
Was  one  whose  memory  clings  to  us  through  life, 
Just  like  a  suit  in  Chancery,  or  a  wife. 


152  FANNY. 

CLXIII. 

That  evening,  with  a  most  important  face 

And  dreadful  knock,  and  tidings  still  more  dreadful, 

A  notary  came — sad  things  had  taken  place ; 
My  hero  had  forgot  to  "  do  the  needful ;" 

A  note  (amount  not  stated),  with  his  name  on't, 

Was  left  unpaid — in  short,  he  had  "  stopped  payment." 

CLXIV. 
I  hate  your  tragedies,  both  long  and  short  ones 

(Except  Tom  Thumb,  and  Juan's  Pantomime) ; 
And  stories  woven  of  sorrows  and  misfortunes 

Are  bad  enough  in  prose,  and  worse  in  rhyme : 
Mine,  therefore,  must  be  brief.     Under  protest 
His  notes  remain — the  wise  can  guess  the  rest. 

CLXV. 

************* 
************* 


FANNY.  153 

CLXVI. 

For  two  whole  days  they  were  the  common  talk  ; 

The  party,  and  the  failure,  and  all  that, 
The  theme  of  loungers  in  their  morning  walk, 

Porter-house  reasoning,  and  tea-table  chat. 
The  third,  some  newer  wonder  came  to  blot  them, 
And  on  the  fourth,  the  "  meddling  world  "  forget  them. 

CLXVII. 

Anxious,  however,  something  to  discover, 

I  passed  their  house — the  shutters  were  all  closed  ; 

The  song  of  knocker  and  of  bell  was  over ; 
Upon  the  steps  two  chimney  sweeps  reposed ; 

And  on  the  door  my  dazzled  eyebeam  met 

These  cabalistic  words — "  this  house  to  let." 

CLXVIII. 

They  live  now,  like  chameleons,  upon  air 

And  hope,  and  such  cold,  unsubstantial  dishes ; 

That  they  removed,  is  clear,  but  when  or  where 
None  knew.     The  curious  reader,  if  he  wishes, 

May  ask  them,  but  in  vain.     Where  grandeur  dwells, 

The  marble  dome — the  popular  rumor  tells ; 
7* 


154  FANNY. 

CLXIX. 

But  of  the  dwelling  of  the  proud  and  poor, 

From  their  own  lips  the  world  will  never  know 

When  better  days  are  gone — it  is  secure 
Beyond  all  other  mysteries  here  below, 

Except,  perhaps,  a  maiden  lady's  age, 

When  past  the  noonday  of  life's  pilgrimage. 

CLXX. 

Fanny  !  'twas  with  her  name  my  song  began  ; 

'Tis  proper  and  polite  her  name  should  end  it ; 
If  in  my  story  of  her  woes,  or  plan 

Or  moral  can  be  traced,  'twas  not  intended ; 
And  if  I've  wronged  her,  I  can  only  tell  her 
Pin  sorry  for  it — so  is  my  bookseller. 

CLXXI. 

I  met  her  yesterday — her  eyes  were  wet — 

She  faintly  smiled,  and  said  she  had  been  reading 
The  Treasurer's  Report  in  the  Gazette, 

Mclntyre's  speech,  and  Campbell's  "  Love  lies  bleeding ;" 
She  had  a  shawl  on,  'twas  not  a  Cashmere  one, 
And  if  it  cost  five  dollars,  'twas  a  dear  one. 


FA'NNY.  155 

CLXXII. 

Her  father  sent  to  Albany  a  prayer 

For  office,  told  how  fortune  had  abused  him, 

And  modestly  requested  to  be  Mayor — 
The  Council  very  civilly  refused  him  ; 

Because,  however  much  they  might  desire  it, 

The  "  public  good,"  it  seems,  did  not  require  it. 

CLXXIII. 
Some  evenings  since,  he  took  a  lonely  stroll 

Along  Broadway,  scene  of  past  joys  and  evils ; 
He  felt  that  withering  bitterness  of  soul, 

Quaintly  denominated  the  "  blue  devils ;" 
And  thought  of  Bonaparte  and  Belisarius, 
Pompey,  and  Colonel  Burr,  and  Caius  Marius, 

CLXXIV. 

And  envying  the  loud  playfulness  and  mirth 

Of  those  who  passed  him,  gay  in  youth  and  hope, 

He  took  at  Jupiter  a  shilling's  worth 

Of  gazing,  through  the  showman's  telescope ; 

Sounds  as  of  far-off  bells  came  on  his  ears, 

He  fancied  'twas  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


156  FANNY. 

CLXXV. 

He  was  mistaken,  it  was  no  such  thing, 

Twas  Yankee  Doodle  played  by  Scudder's  band ; 

He  muttered,  as  he  lingered  listening, 

Something  of  freedom  and  our  happy  land ; 

Then  sketched,  as  to  his  home  he  hurried  fast, 

This  sentimental  song — his  saddest,  and  his  last. 


SONG. 


Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  theme; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angel  voices  heard, 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours, 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers. 


FANNY.  157 


II. 


There's  music  in  the  forest  leaves 

When  summer  winds  are  there, 
And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 

That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 
The  first  wild  bird  that  drinks  the  dew, 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  song,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 


Ill 

There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  their  foam ; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck, 

The  mariner's  song  of  home, 
When  moon  and  star  beams  smiling  meet 

At  midnight  on  the  sea — 
And  there  is  music — once  a  week 

In  Scudder's  baLcony. 


158  FANNY. 


IV. 

But  the  music  of  young  thoughts  too  soon 

Is  faint,  and  dies  away, 
And  from  our  morning  dreams  we  wake 

To  curse  the  coming  day. 
And  childhood's  frolic  hours  are  brief, 

And  oft  in  after  years 
Their  memory  comes  to  chill  the  heart, 

And  dim  the  eye  with  tears. 


V. 

To-day,  the  forest  leaves  are  green, 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow, 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed  ere  long 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the.  winter  snows,  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds  ? 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one, 

More  eloquent  than  words. 


FANNY.  159 


VI. 

The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more, 
When  the  living  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore, 
And  the  mariner's  song  of  home  has  ceased, 

His  corse  is  on  the  sea — 
And  music  ceases  when  it  rains 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 


THE    RECORDER. 

A    PETITION. 

BY    THOMAS     CASTALY. 

Dec.  20, 1828. 

"  On  they  move 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  RECORDERS." 

MILTON. 

"  Live  in  Settles  numbers  one  day  more  I" 

POPE. 

MY  dear  RECORDER,  you  and  I 

Have  floated  down  life's  stream  together, 
And  kept  unharmed  our  friendship's  tie 
Through  every  change  of  Fortune's  sky, 

Her  pleasant  and  her  rainy  weather. 
Full  sixty  times  since  first  we  met, 
Our  birthday  suns  have  risen  and  set, 


)2  THE     RECORDER. 

And  time  has  worn  the  baldness  now 
Of  Julius  Caesar  on  your  brow ; 
Your  brow,  like  his,  a  field  of  thought, 
With  broad  deep  furrows,  spirit-wrought, 
Whose  laurel  harvests  long  have  shown 
As  green  and  glorious  as  his  own ; 
And  proudly  would  the  CAESAR  claim 
Companionship  with  RIKER'S  name, 
His  peer  in  forehead  and  in  fame. 


Both  eloquent  and  learned  and  brave, 

Born  to  command  and  skilled  to  rule, 
One  made  the  citizen  a  slave, 

The  other  makes  him  more — a  fool. 
The  Caesar  an  imperial  crown, 

His  slaves'  mad  gift,  refused  to  wear 
The  Riker  put  his  fooPs  cap  on, 

And  found  it  fitted  to  a  hair ; 
The  Caesar,  though  by  birth  and  breeding, 
Travel,  the  ladies,  and  light  reading, 


THE     RECORDER.  103 

A  gentleman  in  mien  and  mind, 
And  fond  of  Romans  and  their  mothers, 
Was  heartless  as  the  Arab's  wind, 
And  slew  some  millions  of  mankind, 

Including  enemies  and  others. 
The  Riker,  like  Bob  Acres,  stood 
Edgewise  upon  a  field  of  blood, 

The  where  and  wherefore  Swartwout  knows, 
Pulled  trigger,  as  a  brave  man  should, 

And  shot,  God  bless  them — his  own  toes. 
The  Caesar  passed  the  Rubicon 
With  helm,  and  shield,  and  breastplate  on, 

Dashing  his  war-horse  through  the  waters ; 
The  Riker  would  have  built  a  barge 
Or  steamboat  at  the  city's  charge, 

And  passed  it  with  his  wife  and  daughters. 


But  let  that  pass.     As  I  have  said, 
There's  naught,  save  laurels,  on  your  head, 
And  time  has  changed  my  clustering  hair, 
And  showered  the  snow-flakes  thickly  there ; 


164  THE     RECORDER. 

And  though  our  lives  have  ever  been, 
As  different  as  their  different  scene  ; 
Mine  more  renowned  for  rhymes  than  riches, 
Yours  less  for  scholarship  than  speeches ; 
Mine  passed  in  low-roofed  leafy  bower, 
Yours  in  high  halls  of  pomp  and  power, 
Yet  are  we,  be  the  moral  told, 
Alike  in  one  thing — growing  old, 
Ripened  like  summer's  cradled  sheaf, 
Faded  like  autumn's  falling  leaf — 
And  nearing,  sail  and  signal  spread, 
The  quiet  anchorage  of  the  dead. 
For  such  is  human  life,  wherever 

The  voyage  of  its  bark  may  be, 
On  home's  green-banked  and  gentle  river 

Or  the  world's  shoreless,  sleepless  sea. 


Yes,  you  have  floated  down  the  tide 
Of  time,  a  swan  in  grace  and  pride 
And  majesty  and  beauty,  till 
The  law,  the  Ariel  of  your  will, 


THE     RECORDER.  165 

Power's  best  beloved,  the  law  of  libel 
(A  bright  link  in  the  legal  chain) 
Expounded,  settled,  and  made  plain, 
By  your  own  charge,  the  juror's  Bible, 
Has  clipped  the  venomed  tongue  of  slander, 
That  dared  to  call  you  "  Party's  gander, 
The  leader  of  the  geese  who  make 

Our  city's  parks  and  ponds  their  home, 
And  keep  her  liberties  awake 

By  cackling,  as  their  sires  saved  Rome. 
Gander  of  Party's  pond,  wherein 
Lizard,  and  toad,  and  terrapin, 
Your  ale  house  patriots,  are  seen, 

In  Faction's  feverish  sunshine  basking :" 
And  now,  to  rend  this  veil  of  lies, 
Word-woven  by  your  enemies, 
And  keep  your  sainted  memory  free 
From  tarnish  with  posterity, 

I  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
Permission,  sir,  to  write  your  life, 
With  all  its  scenes  of  calm  and  strife, 

And  all  its  turnings  and  its  windings, 


166  THE     RECORDER. 

A  poem,  in  a  quarto  volume — 

Verse,  like  the  subject,  blank  and  solemn, 

With  elegant  appropriate  bindings, 
Of  rat  and  mole  skin  the  one  half, 
The  other  a  part  fox,  part  calf. 
Your  portrait,  graven  line  for  line, 
From  that  immortal  bust  in  plaster, 
The  master-piece  of  Art's  great  master, 

Mr.  Praxiteles  Browere, 
Whose  trowel  is  a  thing  divine, 
Shall  smile  and  bow,  and  promise  there, 
And  twenty-nine  fine  forms  and  faces 

(The  Corporation  and  the  Mayor), 
Linked  hand  in  hand,  like  loves  and  graces, 

Shall  hover  o'er  it,  grouped  in  air, 
With  wild  pictorial  dance  and  song ; 
The  song  of  happy  bees  in  bowers, 
The  dance  of  Guide's  graceful  hours, 
All  scattering  Flushing's  garden  flowers 

Round  the  dear  head  they've  loved  so  long. 


THE     RECORDER.  167 

I  know  that  you  are  modest,  know 

That  when  you  hear  your  merit's  praise, 
Your  cheeks'  quick  blushes  come  and  go, 
Lily  and  rose-leaf,  sun  and  snow, 

Like  maidens'  on  their  bridal  days. 
I  know  that  you  would  fain  decline 
To  aid  me  and  the  sacred  Nine, 
In  giving  to  the  asking  earth 
The  story  of  your  wit  and  worth ; 
For  if  there  be  a  fault  to  cloud 

The  brightness  of  your  clear  good  sense, 
It  is,  and  be  the  fact  allowed, 

Your  only  failing — DIFFIDENCE  ! 
An  amiable  weakness — given 

To  justify  the  sad  reflection, 
That  in  this  vale  of  tears  not  even 

A  Riker  is  complete  perfection, 
A  most  romantic  detestation 
Of  power  and  place,  of  pay  and  ration ; 
A  strange  unwillingness  to  carry 

The  weight  of  honor  on  your  shoulders, 
For  which  you  have  been  named,  the  very 

Sensitive  plant  of  office-holders, 


168  THE     RECORDER. 

A  shrinking  bashfulness,  whose  grace 

Gives  beauty  to  your  manly  face. 
Thus  shades  the  green  and  growing  vine 
The  rough  bark  of  the  mountain  pine, 
Thus  round  her  freedom's  waking  steel 

Harmodius  wreathed  his  country's  myrtle : 
And  thus  the  golden  lemon's  peel 
Gives  fragrance  to  a  bowl  of  turtle. 


True,  "  many  a  flower,"  the  poet  sings, 

"  Is  born  to  blush  unseen  ;" 
But  you,  although  you  blush,  are  not 

The  flower  the  poets  mean. 
In  vain  you  wooed  a  lowlier  lot : 

In  vain  you  clipped  your  eagle-wings — 
Talents  like  yours  are  not  forgot 

And  buried  with  earth's  common  things. 
No  !  my  dear  Riker,  I  would  give 
My  laurels,  living  and  to  live, 
Or  as  much  cash  as  you  could  raise  on 
Their  value,  by  hypothecation, 


THE     RECORDER.  169 


To  be,  for  one  enchanted  hour, 
In  beauty,  majesty,  and  power, 
What  you  for  forty  years  have  been, 
The  Oberon  of  life's  fairy  scene. 


An  anxious  city  sought  and  found  you 

In  a  blessed  day  of  joy  and  pride, 
Sceptred  your  jewelled  hand,  and  crowned  you 

Her  chief,  her  guardian,  and  her  guide. 
Honors  which  weaker  minds  had  wrought 

In  vain  for  years,  and  knelt  and  prayed  for, 
Are  all  your  own,  unpriced,  unbought, 

Or  (which  is  the  same  thing)  unpaid  for. 
Painfully  great !  against  your  will 

Her  hundred  offices  to  hold, 
Each  chair  with  dignity  to  fill, 

And  your  own  pockets  with  her  gold : 
A  sort  of  double  duty,  making 
Your  task  a  serious  undertaking. 


8 


170  THE     RECORDER. 

With  what  delight  the  eyes  of  all 
Gaze  on  you,  seated  in  your  Hall, 

Like  Sancho  in  his  island,  reigning, 
Loved  leader  of  its  motley  hosts 
Of  lawyers  and  their  bills  of  costs, 

And  all  things  thereto  appertaining, 
Such  as  crimes,  constables,  and  juries, 
Male  pilferers  and  female  furies, 
The  police  and  the  polissons, 
Illegal  right  and  legal  wrong, 
Bribes,  perjuries,  law-craft,  and  cunning, 
Judicial  drollery  and  punning  ; 
And  all  the  et  ceteras  that  grace 
That  genteel,  gentlemanly  place ! 
Or  in  the  Council  Chamber  standing 

With  eloquence  of  eye  and  brow, 
Your  voice  the  music  of  commanding, 

And  fascination  in  your  bow, 
Arranging  for  the  civic  shows 

Your  "  men  in  buckram,"  as  per  list, 
Your  John  Does  and  your  Richard  Roes, 

Those  Dummys  of  your  games  of  whist. 


THE     RECORDER.  171 

The  Council  Chamber — where  authority 
Consists  in  two  words — a  majority. 
For  whose  contractors'  jobs  we  pay 

Our  last  dear  sixpences  for  taxes, 
As  freely  as  in  Sylla's  day, 

Rome  bled  beneath  his  lictors'  axes. 
Where — on  each  magisterial  nose 

In  colors  of  the  rainbow  linger, 
Like  sunset  hues  on  Alpine  snows, 

The  printmarks  of  your  thumb  and  finger 
Where  he,  the  wisest  of  wild  fowl, 
Bird  of  Jove's  blue-eyed  maid — the  owl, 

That  feathered  alderman,  is  heard 
Nightly,  by  poet's  ear  alone, 
To  other  eyes  and  ears  unknown, 

Cheering  your  every  look  and  word, 
And  making,  room  and  gallery  through, 

The  loud,  applauding  echoes  peal, 
Of  his  "  ou  pent  on  etre  mieux 
Qu'au  sien  de  safamille?"* 

*  A  favorite  French  air.    In  English,  "  where  can  one  be  moro 
happy  than  in  the  bosom  of  one's  family  ?" 


172  THE     RECORDER. 

Oh  for  a  herald's  skill  to  rank 

Your  titles  in  their  due  degrees ! 
At  Singsing — at  the  Tradesmen's  Bank, 

In  Courts,  Committees,  Caucuses  : 
At  Albany,  where  those  who  knew 

The  last  year's  secrets  of  the  great, 
Call  you  the  golden  handle  to 

The  earthen  Pitcher  of  the  State. 
(Poor  Pitcher  !  that  Van  Buren  ceases 

To  want  its  service  gives  me  pain, 
'Twill  break  into  as  many  pieces 

As  Kitty's  of  Coleraine.) 
At  Bellevue,  on  her  banquet  night, 

Where  Burgundy  and  business  meet, 
On  others,  at  the  heart's  delight, 

The  Pewter  Mug  in  Frankfort-street  j 
From  Harlocm  bridge  to  Whitehall  dock, 

From  Bloomingdale  to  BlackwelPs  Isles, 
Forming,  including  road  and  rock, 

A  city  of  some  twelve  square  miles, 
O'er  street  and  alley,  square  and  block, 

Towers,  temples,  telegraphs,  and  tiles, 


THE     RECORDER.  173 

O'er  wharves  whose  stone  and  timbers  mock 
The  ocean's  and  its  navies'  shock, 
O'er  all  the  fleets  that  float  before  her, 
O'er  all  their  banners  waving  o'er  her, 
Her  sky  and  waters,  earth  and  air — 
You  are  lord,  for  who  is  her  lord  mayor  1 
Where  is  he  1     Echo  answers,  where  ? 
And  voices,  like  the  sound  of  seas, 
Breathe  in  sad  chorus,  on  the  breeze, 
The  Highland  mourner's  melody — 
Oh  HONE  a  rie !     Oh  HONE  a  rie  ! 
The  hymn  o'er  happy  days  departed, 

The  Hope  that  such  again  may  be, 
When  power  was  large  and  liberal-hearted, 

And  wealth  was  hospitality. 


One  more  request,  and  I  am  lost, 
If  you  its  earnest  prayer  deny ; 

It  is,  that  you  preserve  the  most 
Inviolable  secrecy 

As  to  my  plan.     Our  fourteen  wards 


174  THE     RECORDER. 

Contain  some  thirty-seven  bards 

Who,  if  my  glorious  theme  were  known, 

Would  make  it,  thought  and  word,  their  own, 

My  hopes  and  happiness  destroy, 

And  trample  with  a  rival's  joy 

Upon  the  grave  of  my  renown. 
My  younger  brothers  in  the  art, 
Whose  study  is  the  human  heart — 
Minstrels,  before  whose  spells  have  bowed 
The  learned,  the  lovely,  and  the  proud, 

Ere  their  life's  morning  hours  are  gone — 
Light  hearts  be  theirs,  the  muse's  boon, 
And  may  their  suns  blaze  bright  at  nooiv, 

And  set  without  a  cloud. 


HILLHOUSE,  whose  music,  like  his  themes, 
Lifts  earth  to  heaven — whose  poet  dreai?is 
Are  pure  and  holy  as  the  hymn 
Echoed  from  harps  of  seraphim, 
By  bards  that  drank  at  Zion's  fountains 


THE     RECORDER.  175 

When  glory,  peace,  and  hope  were  hers, 
And  beautiful  upon  her  mountains 

The  feet  of  angel  messengers. 
BRYANT,  whose  songs  are  thoughts  that  bless 

The  heart,  its  teachers,  and  its  joy, 
As  mothers  blend  with  their  caress 
Lessons  of  truth  and  gentleness 

And  virtue  for  the  listening  boy. 
Spring's  lovelier  flowers  for  many  a  day 
Have  blossomed  on  his  wandering  way, 
Beings  of  beauty  and  decay, 

They  slumber  in  their  autumn  tomb ; 
But  those  that  graced  his  own  Green  River, 

And  wreathed  the  lattice  of  his  home, 
Charmed  by  his  song  from  mortal  doom, 

Bloom  on,  and  will  bloom  on  for  ever. 
And  HALLECK — who  has  made  thy  roof, 
St.  Tammany !  oblivion-proof— 
Thy  beer  illustrious,  and  thee 
A  belted  knight  of  chivalry ; 


176  THE     RECORDER-. 

And  changed  thy  dome  of  painted  bricks 
And  porter  casks  and  politics, 

Into  a  green  Arcadian  vale, 
With  Stephen  Allen  for  its  lark, 
.  Ben  Bailey's  voice  its  watch-dog's  bark, 

And  John  Targee  its  nightingale. 


These,  and  the  other  THIRTY-FOUR, 
Will  live  a  thousand  years  or  more — 
If  the  world  lasts  so  long.     For  me, 
I  rhyme  not  for  posterity, 
Though  pleasant  to  my  heirs  might  be 

The  incense  of  its  praise, 
When  I  their  ancestor,  have  gone, 
And  paid  the  debt,  the  only  one 

A  poet  ever  pays. 
But  many  are  my  years,  and  few 
Are  left  me  ere  night's  holy  dew, 
And  sorrow's  holier  tears,  will  keep 
The  grass  green  where  in  death  I  sleep. 


THE     RECORDER.  177 

And  when  that  grass  is  green  above  me, 
And  those  who  bless  me  now  and  lovo.  me 

Are  sleeping  by  my  side, 
Will  it  avail  me  aught  that  men 
Tell  to  the  world  with  lip  and  pen 

That  once  I  lived  and  died  ? 
No :  if  a  garland  for  my  brow 
Is  growing,  let  me  have  it  now, 

While  I'm  alive  to  wear  it ; 
And  if,  in  whispering  my  name, 
There's  music  in  the  voice  of  fame 

Like  Garcia's,  let  me  hear  it ! 


The  Christmas  holidays  are  nigh, 
Therefore,  till  Newyear's  Eve,  good-by, 

Then  " revenons  a  nos  moutons" 
Yourself  and  aldermen — meanwhile, 
Look  o'er  this  letter  with  a  smile ; 
And  keep  the  secret  of  its  song 
As  faithfully,  but  not  as  long, 
8* 


178  THE     RECORDER. 

As  you  have  guarded  from  the  eyes 
Of  editorial  Paul  Prys, 

And  other  meddlir.g,  murmuring  claimants, 
Those  Eleusinian  mysteries, 

The  city's  cash  receipts  and  payments. 
Yours  ever, 

T.  C. 


EPISTLES,    ETC 


TO  WALTER  BOWNE,    ESQ., 


MEMBER  OF  THE  COUNCIL  OF  APPOINTMENT  OF  THE  STATE  OF  NEW 
YORK,  AT  ALBANY,  1821. 


1  Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once." 

;  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  precious  to  me." 

MACBETH. 


WE  do  not  blame  you,  Walter  Bowne, 

For  a  variety  of  reasons  ; 
You're  now  the  talk  of  half  the  town, 
A  man  of  talent  and  renown, 

And  will  be  for  perhaps  two  seasons. 
That  face  of  yours  has  magic  in  it ; 
Its  smile  transports  us  in  a  minute 


1  82  E  P  I  S  T  L  E  S  ,     E  T  C  . 

To  wealth  and  pleasure's  sunny  bowers ; 
And  there  is  terror  in  its  frown, 
Which,  like  a  mower's  scythe,  cuts  down 

Our   city's  loveliest  flowers. 


We  therefore  do  not  blame  you,  sir, 

Whate'er  our  cause  of  grief  may  be  ; 
And  cause  enough  we  have  to  "  stir 

The  very  stones  to  mutiny." 
You've  driven  from  the  cash  and  cares 
Of  office,  heedless  of  our  prayers, 
Men  who  have  been  for  many  a  year 
To  us  and  to  our  purses  dear, 

And  will  be  to  our  heirs  for  ever, 
Our  tears,  thanks  to  the  snow  and  rain, 
Have  swelled  the  brook  in  Maiden-lane 

Into  a  mountain  river ; 
And  when  you  visit  us  again. 
Leaning  at  Tammany  on  your  cane, 
Like  warrior  on  his  battle  blade, 
You'll  mourn  the  havoc  you  have  made. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  183 

There  is  a  silence  and  a  sadness 

Within  the  marble  mansion  now  ; 
Some  have  wild  eyes  that  threaten  madness, 

Some  think  of  "  kicking  up  a  row." 
Judge  Miller  will  not  yet  believe 
That  you  have  ventured  to  bereave 

The  city  and  its  hall  of  him : 
He  has  in  his  own  fine  way  stated, 
"  The  fact  must  be  substantiated," 

Before  he'll  move  a  single  limb. 
He  deems  it  cursed  hard  to  yield 
Thejiaurel  won  in  every  field 

Through  sixteen  years  of  party  war, 
And  to  be  seen  at  noon  no  more, 
Enjoying  at  his  office  door 

The  luxury  of  a  tenth  segar. 
Judge  Warner  says  that,  when  he's  gone, 

You'll  miss  the  true  Dogberry  breed  ; 
And  Christian  swears  that  you  have  done 

A  most  UN-Christian  deed. 


184  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

How  could  you  have  the  heart  to  strike 
From  place  the  peerless  Pierre  Van  Wyck  1 
And  the  twin  colonels,  Haines  and  Pell, 
Squire  Fessenden,  and  Sheriff  Bell ; 
Morrell,  a  justice  and  a  wise  one, 
And  Ned  M'Laughlin  the  exciseman ; 
The  two  health  officers,  believers 
In  Clinton  and  contagious  fevers  ; 
The  keeper  of  the  city's  treasures, 
The  sealer  of  her  weights  and  measures, 
The  harbor-master,  her  best  bower 
Cable  in  party's  stormy  hour  ; 
Ten  auctioneers,  three  bank  directors, 
And  Mott  and  Duffy,  the  inspectors 
Of  whiskey  and  of  flour  ? 


It  was  but  yesterday  they  stood 

All  (ex-officio)  great  and  good. 

But  by  the  tomahawk  struck  down 

Of  party  and  of  Walter  Bowne, 

Where  are  they  now  ?     With  shapes  of  air, 


ETC.  185 


The  caravan  of  things  that  were, 
Journeying  to  their  nameless  home, 
Like  Mecca's  pilgrims  from  her  tomb ; 
With  the  lost  Pleiad  ;  with  the  wars 
Of  Agamemnon's  ancestors ; 
With  their  own  years  of  joy  and  grief, 
Spring's  bud,  and  autumn's  faded  leaf; 
With  birds  that  round  their  cradles  flew  ; 
With  winds  that  in  their  boyhood  blew  ; 
With  last  night's  dream  and  last  night's  dew. 


Yes,  they  are  gone  ;  alas  !  each  one  of  them  ; 
Departed — every  mother's  son  of  them. 
Yet  often,  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  thoughts  are  winged  and  wandering,  they 
Come  with  the  memory  of  the  past, 

Like  sunset  clouds  along  the  mind, 
Reflecting,  as  they're  flitting  fast 
In  their  wild  hues  of  shade  and  light, 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  bright 

In  golden  moments  left  behind. 


TO    ****. 

DEAR  *  *  * ,  I  am  writing,  not  to  you,  but  at  you, 

For  the  feet  of  you  tourists  have  no  resting-place ; 
But  wherever  with  this  the  mail-pigeon  may  catch  you, 

May  she  find  you  with  gayety's  smile  on  your  face ; 
Whether  chasing  a  snipe  at  the  Falls  of  Cohoes, 
Or  chased  by  the  snakes  upon  Anthony's  Nose ; 
Whether  wandering,  at  Catskill,  from  Hotel  to  Clove, 
Making  sketches,  or  speeches,  puns,  poems,  or  love ; 
Or  in  old  Saratoga's  unknown  fountain-land, 
Threading  groves  of  enchantment,  half  bushes,  half  sand : 
Whether  dancing  on  Sundays,  at  Lebanon  Springs, 

With  those  Madame  Hutins  of  religion,  the  Shakers ; 
Or,  on  Tuesdays,  with  maidens  who  seek  wedding-rings 

At  Ballston,  as  taught  by  mammas  and  match-makers; 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  187 

Whether  sailing  St.  Lawrence,  with  unbroken  neck, 
From  her  thousand  green  isles  to  her  castled  Quebec ; 
Or  sketching  Niagara,  pencil  on  knee 

(The  giant  of  waters,  our  country's  pet  lion), 
Or  dipped  at  Long  Branch,  in  the  real  salt  sea, 

With  a  cork  for  a  dolphin,  a  Cockney  Arion  ; 
Whether  roaming  earth,  ocean,  or  even  the  air, 
Like  Dan  O'Rourke's  eagle — gook  luck  to  you  there. 


For  myself,  as  you'll  see  by  the  date  of  my  letter, 
I'm  in  town,  but  of  that  fact  the  least  said  the  better ; 
For  'tis  vain  to  deny  (though  the  city  o'erflows 
With  well-dressed  men  and  women,  whom  nobody 

knows) 

That  one  rarely  sees  persons  whose  nod  is  an  honor, 
A  lady  with  fashion's  own  impress  upon  her  ; 
Or  a  gentleman  blessed  with  the  courage  to  say, 
Like  Morris  (the  Prince  Regent's  friend,  in  his  day), 
"  Let  others  in  sweet  shady  solitudes  dwell, 
Oh  !  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall." 


188  EPISTLES,      ETC. 

Apropos — our  friend  A.  chanced  this  morning  to  meet 
The  accomplished  Miss  B.  as  he  passed  Contoit's 

Garden, 
Both  in  town  in  July  ! — he  crossed  over  the  street. 

And  she  entered  the  rouge-shop  of  Mrs.  St.  Martin. 
Resolved  not  to  look  at  another  known  face, 
Through  Leonard  and  Church  streets  she  walked  to  Park 

Place, 
And  he  turned  from  Broadway  into  Catharine-lane, 

And  coursed,  to  avoid  her,  through  alley  and  by-street, 
Till  they  met,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  again, 
Face  to  face,  near  the  pump  at  the  corner  of  Dey- 
street. 


Yet,  as  most  of  "The  Fashion"  are  journeying  now, 
With  the  brown  hues  of  summer  on  cheek  and  on  brow, 
The  few  "gens  comme  il  faut"  who  are  lingering  here, 
Are,  like  fruits  out  of  season,  more  welcome  and  dear. 
Like  "  the  last  rose  of  summer,  left  blooming  alone," 
Or  the  last  snows  of  winter,  pure  ice  of  haul  ton, 


EPISTLES,      ETC.  189 

Unmelted,  undimmed  by  the  sun's  brightest  ray, 
And,  like  diamonds,  making  night's  darkness  seem  day. 
One  meets  them  in  groups,  that  Canova  might  fancy, 
At  our  new  lounge  at  evening,  the  Opera  Fran$ais, 
In  nines  like  the  Muses,  in  threes  like  the  Graces, 
Green  spots  in  a  desert  of  commonplace  faces. 
The  Queen,  Mrs.  Adams,  goes  there  sweetly  dressed 

In  a  beautiful  bonnet,  all  golden  and  flowery  : 
While  the  King,  Mr.  Bonaparte,  smiles  on  Celeste, 

Heloise,  and  Hutin,  from  his  box  at  the  Bowery. 


For  news,  Parry  still  the  North  Sea  is  exploring, 

And  the  Grand  Turk  has  taken,  they  say,  the  Acropolis, 
And  we,  in  Swamp  Place,  have  discovered,  in  boring, 

A  mineral  spring  to  refine  the  metropolis. 
The  day  we  discovered  it  was,  by-the-way 
In  the  life  of  the  Cockneys,  a  glorious  day. 
For  we  all  had  been  taught,  by  tradition  and  reading, 

That  to  gain  what  admits  us  to  levees  of  kings, 
The  gentleness,  courtesy,  grace  of  high  breeding, 

The  only  sure  way  was  to  "  visit  the  Springs." 


100  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

So  the  whole  city  visited  Swamp  Spring  en  masse, 

From  attorney  to  sweep,  from  physician  to  pavior, 
To  drink  of  cold  water  at  sixpence  a  glass, 

And  learn  true  politeness  and  genteel  behavior. 
Though  the  crowd  was  immense  till  the  hour  of  departure, 

No  gentleman's  feelings  were  hurt  in  the  rush, 
Save  a  grocer's,  who  lost  his  proof-glass  and  bung- 
starter, 
And  a  chimney-sweep's,  robbed  of  his  scraper  and 

brush. 
They  lingered  till  sunset  and  twilight  had  come, 

When,  wearied  in  limb,  but  much  polished  in  manners, 
The  sovereign  people  moved  gracefully  home, 

In  the  beauty  and  pride  of  "  an  army  with  banners." 


As  to  politics — Adams  and  Clinton  yet  live, 

And  reign,  we  presume,  as  we  never  have  missed  'em, 

And  woollens  and  Webster  continue  to  thrive 
Under  something  they  call  the  American  System. 

If  you're  anxious  to  know  what  the  country  is  doing, 

Whether  ruined  already  or  going  to  ruin, 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  191 

And  who  her  next  president  will  be,  please  heaven, 
Read  the  letters  of  Jackson,  the  speeches  of  Clay, 
All  the  party  newspapers,  three  columns  a  day, 

And  Blunt's  Annual  Register,  year  'twenty-seven. 

*** 


A   FRAGMENT. 


His  shop  is  a  grocer's — a  snug,  genteel  place, 
Near  the  corner  of  Oak-street  and  Pearl ; 

He  can  dress,  dance,  and  bow  to  the  ladies  with  grace, 
And  ties  his  cravat  with  a  curl. 

He's  asked  to  all  parties — north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
That  take  place  between  Chatham  and  Cherry, 

And  when  he's  been  absent  full  oft  has  the  "  best 
Society  "  ceased  to  be  merry. 

And  nothing  has  darkened  a  sky  so  serene, 
Nor  disordered  his  beauship's  Elysium, 

Till  this  season  among  our  elite  there  has  been 
What  is  called  by  the  clergy  "  a  schism." 


EPISTLES,      ETC. 

'Tis  all  about  eating  and  drinking — one  set 
Gives  sponge-cake,  a  few  "  kisses  "  or  so, 

And  is  cooled  after  dancing  with  classic  sherbet, 
"  Sublimed  "  (see  Lord  Byron)  "  with  snow." 

Another  insists  upon  punch  and  perdrix, 
Lobster-salad,  Champagne,  and,  by  way 

Of  a  novelty  only,  those  pearls  of  our  sea, 
Stewed  oysters  from  Lynn-Haven  bay. 

Miss  Flounce,  the  young  milliner,  blue-eyed  and  bright, 

In  the  front  parlor  over  her  shop, 
"  Entertains,"  as  the  phrase  is,  a  party  to-night, 

Upon  peanuts  and  ginger-pop. 

And  Miss  Fleece,  who's  a  hosier,  and  not  quite  as  young, 

But  is  wealthier  far  than  Miss  Flounce, 
She  "  entertains  "  also  to-night  with  cold  tongue, 

Smoked  herring,  and  cherry-bounce. 

In  praise  of  cold  water  the  Theban  bard  spoke, 

He  of  Teos  sang  sweetly  of  wine ; 
Miss  Flounce  is  a  Pindar  in  cashmere  and  cloak, 

Miss  Fleece  an  Anacreon  divine. 
0 


194  EPISTLES,      ETC. 

The  Montagues  carry  the  day  in  Swamp  Place ; 

In  Pike-street  the  Capulets  reign ; 
A  limonadiere  is  the  badge  of  one  race, 

Of  the  other  a  flask  of  Champagne. 

Now  as  each  the  same  evening  her  soiree  announces, 

What  better,  he  asks,  can  be  done, 
Than  drink  water  from  eight  until  ten  with  the  Flounces, 

And  then  wine  with  the  Fleeces  till  one  ! 


SONG. 


BY  MISS  »**». 


Am :  "To  ladies'  eyes  a  round,  boy," 

MOORE. 


THE  winds  of  March  are  humming 

Their  parting  song,  their  parting  song, 
And  summer's  skies  are  coining, 

And  days  grow  long,  and  days  grow  long. 
I  watch,  but  not  in  gladness, 

Our  garden  tree,  our  garden  tree  ; 
It  buds,  in  sober  sadness, 

Too  soon  for  me,  too  soon  for  me. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover  : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


196  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

'Tis  not  asleep  or  idle 

That  love  has  been,  that  love  has  been ; 
For  many  a  happy  bridal 

The  year  has  seen,  the  year  has  seen ; 
I've  done  a  bridemaid's  duty, 

At  three  or  four,  at  three  or  four  ; 
My  best  bouquet  had  beauty, 
Its  donor  more,  its  donor  more. 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover  : 
Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


His  flowers  my  bosom  shaded 

One  sunny  day,  one  sunny  day ; 
The  next,  they  fled  and  faded, 

Beau  and  bouquet,  beau  and  bouquet. 
In  vain,  at  ball  and  parties, 

I've  thrown  my  net,  I've  thrown  iny  net ; 
This  waltzing,  watching  heart  is 

Unchosen  yet,  unchosen  yet. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  197 

My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 
Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


They  tell  me  there's  no  hurry 

For  Hymen's  ring,  for  Hymen's  ring ; 
And  I'm  too  young  to  marry  : 

'Tis  no  such  thing,  'tis  no  such  thing. 
The  next  spring  tides  will  dash  on 

My  eighteenth  year,  my  eighteenth  year  ; 
It  puts  me  in  a  passion, 

Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  oh  dear,  oh  dear ! 
My  second  winter's  over, 

Alas !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover  : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


SONG. 

FOR  THE  DRAMA  OF  "TliE  SPY." 

THE  harp  of  love,  when  first  I  heard 

Its  song  beneath  the  moonlight  tree, 
Was  echoed  by  his  plighted  word, 

And  ah,  how  dear  its  song  to  me ; 
But  wailed  the  hour  \vill  ever  be 

When  to  the  air  the  bugle  gave, 
To  hush  love's  gentle  minstrelsy, 

The  wild  war  music  of  the  brave. 


EPISTLES,      ETC.  199 

For  he  hath  heard  its  song,  and  now 

Its  voice  is  sweeter  than  mine  own  ; 
And  he  hath  broke  the  plighted  vow 

He  breathed  to  me  and  love  alone. 
That  harp  hath  lost  its  wonted  tone, 

No  more  its  strings  his  lingers  move, 
Oh  would  that  he  had  only  known 

The  music  of  the  harp  of  love. 
1822. 


ADDRESS. 

AT  THE  OPENING  OF  A  NEW  THEATRE. 

November,  1831. 

WHERE  dwells  the  Drama's  spirit  ?  not  alone 
Beneath  the  palace  roof,  beside  the  throne, 
In  learning's  cloisters,  friendship's  festal  bowers, 
Art's  pictured  halls,  or  triumph's  laurelled  towers, 
Where'er  man's  pulses  beat,  or  passions  play, 
She  joys  to  smile  or  sigh  his  thoughts  away : 
Crowd  times  and  scenes  within  her  ring  of  power, 
And  teach  a  life's  experience  in  an  hour. 


To-night  she  greets,  for  the  first  time,  our  dome, 
Her  latest,  may  it  prove  her  lasting  home ; 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  201 

And  we  her  messengers  delighted  stand, 
The  summoned  Ariels  of  her  mystic  wand, 
To  ask  your  welcome.     Be  it  yours  to  give 
Bliss  to  her  coming  hours,  and  bid  her  live 
Within  these  walls  new  hallowed  in  her  cause, 
Long  in  the  nurturing  warmth  of  your  applause. 


'Tis  in  the  public  smiles,  the  public  loves, 

His  dearest  home,  the  actor  breathes  and  moves, 

Your  plaudits  are  to  us  and  to  our  art 

As  is  the  life-blood  to  the  human  heart : 

And  every  power  that  bids  the  leaf  be  green, 

In  nature  acts  on  this  her  mimic  scene. 

Our  sunbeams  are  the  sparklings  of  glad  eyes, 

Our  winds  the  whisper  of  applause,  that  flies 

From  lip  to  lip,  the  heart-born  laugh  of  glee, 

And  sounds  of  cordial  hands  that  ring  out  merrily, 

And  heaven's  own  dew  falls  on  us  in  the  tear 

That  woman  weeps  o'er  sorrows  pictured  here, 

When  crowded  feelings  have  no  words  to  tell 

The  might,  the  magic  of  the  actor's  spell. 
0* 


20*2  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

These  have  been  ours ;  and  do  we  hope  in  vain 
Here,  oft  and  deep,  to  feel  them  ours  again  ? 
No  !  while  the  weary  heart  can  find  repose 
From  its  own  pains  in  fiction's  joys  or  woes  : 
While  there  are  open  lips  and  dimpled  cheeks, 
When  music  breathes,  or  wit  or  humor  speaks ; 
While  Shakspeare's  master  spirit  can  call  up 
Noblest  and  .worthiest  thoughts,  and  brim  the  cup 
Of  life  with  bubbles  bright  as  happiness, 
Cheating  the  willing  bosom  into  bliss ; 
So  long  will  those  who,  in  their  spring  of  youth, 
Have  listened  to  the  Drama's  voice  of  truth, 
Marked  in  her  scenes  the  manners  of  their  age, 
And  gathered  knowledge  for  a  wider  stage, 
Come  here  to  speed  with  smiles  life's  summer  years, 
And  melt  its  winter  snow  with  pleasant  tears ; 
And  younger  hearts,  when  ours  are  hushed  and  cold, 
Be  happy  here  as  we  have  been  of  old. 


Friends  of  the  stage,  who  hail  it  as  the  shrine 
Where  music,  painting,  poetry  entwine 


EPISTLES  ,      ETC. 

Their  kindred  garlands,  whence  their  blended  power 
Kefines,  exalts,  ennobles  hour  by  hour 
The  spirit  of  the  land,  and,  like  the  wind, 
Unseen  but  felt,  bears  on  the  bark  of  mind  ; 
To  you  the  hour  that  consecrates  this  dome, 
Will  call  up  dreams  of  prouder  hours  to  come, 
When  some  creating  poet,  born  your  own, 
May  waken  here  the  drama's  loftiest  tone, 
Through  after  years  to  echo  loud  and  long, 
A  Shakspeare  of  the  West,  a  star  of  song, 
Bright'ning  your  own  blue  skies  with  living  fire, 
All  times  to  gladden  and  all  tongues  inspire, 
Far  as  beneath  the  heaven  by  sea-winds  fanned, 
Floats  the  free  banner  of  your  native  land. 


THE     RHYME 


THE    ANCIENT    COASTER 


WRITTEN  WHILE  SAILING!  IN  AN  OPEN  BOAT  ON  THE  HUDSON  RIVER, 

BETWEEN  STONY  POINT  AND  THE  HIGHLANDS,  ON  SEEING 

THE  WRECK  OF  AN  OLD  SLOOP,  JUNE,  1821. 

"  And  this  our  Iife5  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

SlIAKSPEAKE. 


HER  side  is  in  the  water, 

Her  keel  is  in  the  sand, 
And  her  bowsprit  rests  on  the  low  gray  rock 

That  bounds  the  sea  and  land. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  205 

Her  deck  is  without  a  mast, 

And  sand  and  shells  are  there, 
And  the  teeth  of  decay  are  gnawing  her  planks, 

In  the  sun  and  the  sultry  air. 

No  more  on  the  river's  bosom, 

When  sky  and  wave  are  calm, 
And  the  clouds  are  in  summer  quietness, 

And  the  cool  night-breath  is  balm, 

Will  she  glide  in  the  swan-like  stillness 

Of  the  moon  in  the  blue  above, 
A  messenger  from  other  lands, 

A  beacon  to  hope  and  love. 

No  more,  in  the  midnight  tempest, 

Will  she  mock  the  mounting  sea, 
Strong  in  her  oaken  timbers, 

And  her  white  sail's  bravery. 

She  hath  borne,  in  days  departed, 

Warm  hearts  upon  her  deck  ; 
Those  hearts,  like  her,  are  mouldering  now, 

The  victims,  and  the  wreck 


206 


EPISTLES,     ETC. 


Of  time,  whose  touch  erases 

Each  vestige  of  all  we  love ; 

The  wanderers,  home  returning, 
Who  gazed  that  deck  above, 

And  they  who  stood  to  welcome 
Their  loved  ones  on  that  shore, 

Are  gone,  and  the  place  that  knew  them 
Shall  know  them  never  more. 

******* 
******* 


It  was  a  night  of  terror, 

In  the  autumn  equinox, 
When  that  gallant  vessel  found  a  grave 

Upon  the  Peekskill  rocks. 

Captain,  mate,  cook,  and  seamen 
(They  were  in  all  but  three), 

Were  saved  by  swimming  fast  and  well. 
And  their  gallows-destiny. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  207 

But  two,  a  youth  and  maiden, 

Were  left  to  brave  the  storm, 
With  unpronounceable  Dutch  names, 

And  hearts  with  true  love  warm. 

And  they,  for  love  has  watchers 

In  air,  on  earth,  and  sea, 
Were  saved  by  clinging  to  the  wreck, 

And  their  marriage-destiny. 

From  sunset  to  night's  noon 

She  had  leaned  upon  his  arm, 
Nor  heard  the  far-off  thunder  toll 

The  tocsin  of  alarm. 

Not  so  the  youth — he  listened 

To  the  cloud-wing  flapping  by  ; 
And  low  he  whispered  in  Low  Dutch, 

"  It  tells  our  doom  is  nigh. 

"  Death  is  the  lot  of  mortals, 

But  we  are  y«ung  and  strong, 
And  hoped,  not  boldly,  for  a  life 

Of  happy  years  and  long. 


208  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

"  Yet  'tis  a  thought  consoling, 

That,  till  our  latest  breath, 
We  loved  in  life,  and  shall  not  be 

Divided  in  our  death. 

"  Alas,  for  those  that  wait  us 

On  their  couch  of  dreams  at  home, 

The  morn  will  hear  the  funeral  cry 
Around  their  daughter's  tomb. 

"  They  hoped"  ('twas  a  strange  moment 
In  Dutch  to  quote  Shakspeare) 

"  Thy  bride-bed  to  have  decked,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strewed  thy  bier." 

But  sweetly-voiced  and  smiling, 

The  trusting  maiden  said, 
"  Breathed  not  thy  lips  the  vow  to-day, 

To-morrow  we  will  wed1? 

"  And  I,  who  have  known  thy  truth 
Through  years  of  joy  atid  sorrow, 

Can  I  believe  the  fickle  winds  ? 

No  !  we  shall  wed  to-morrow  !" 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  209 

The  tempest  heard  and  paused — 

The  wild  sea  gentler  moved — 
They  felt  the  power  of  woman's  faith 

In  the  word  of  him  she  loved. 

All  night  to  rope  and  spar 

They  clung  with  strength  untired, 
Till  the  dark  clouds  fled  before  the  sun, 

And  the  fierce  storm  expired. 

At  noon  the  song  of  bridal  bells 

O'er  hill  and  valley  ran  ; 
At  eve  he  called  the  maiden  his, 

"  Before  the  holy  man." 

They  dwelt  beside  the  waters 

That  bathe  yon  fallen  pine, 
And  round  them  grew  their  sons  and  daughters, 

Like  wild  grapes  on  the  vine. 

And  years  and  years  flew  o'er  them, 

Like  birds  with  beauty  on  their  wings, 

And  theirs  were  happy  sleigh-ride  winters, 
And  long  and  lovely  springs, 


210  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

Such  joys  as  thrilled  the  lips  that  kissed, 

The  wave,  rock-cooled,  from  Horeb's  fountains, 

And  sorrows,  fleeting  as  the  mist 

Of  morning,  spread  upon  the  mountains, 

Till,  in  a  good  old  age, 

Their  life-breath  passed  away  ; 
Their  name  is  on  the  churchyard  page — 

Their  story  in  my  lay. 


And  let  them  rest  together, 

The  maid,  the  boat,  the  boy, 
Why  sing  of  matrimony  now, 

In  this  brief  hour  of  joy  1 

Our  time  may  come,  and  let  it — 
'Tis  enough  for  us  now  to  know 

That  our  bark  will  reach  West  Point  ere  long, 
If  the  breeze  keep  on  to  blow. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  '211 

We  have  Hudibras  and  Milton, 

Wines,  flutes,  and  a  bugle-horn, 
And  a  dozen  segars  are  lingering  yet 

Of  the  thousand  of  yestermorn. 

They  have  gone,  like  life's  first  pleasures, 

And  faded  in  smoke  away, 
And  the  few  that  are  left  are  like  bosom  friends 

In  the  evening  of  our  day. 

We  are  far  from  the  mount  of  battle,* 

Where  the  wreck  first  met  mine  eye, 
And  now  where  twin-fortsf  in  the  olden  time  rose, 
Through  the  Race,  like  a  swift  steed,  our  little  bark  goes, 
And  our  bugle's  notes  echo  through  Anthony's  Nose, 

So  wrecks  and  rhymes — good-by. 

*  Stony  Point.  t  Forts  Clinton  and  Montgomery. 


LINES 

TO  HER  WHO  CAN  UNDERSTAND  THEM. 

AIR  :  "  To  ladies'  eyes  a  round,  boy !" 

THE  song  that  o'er  me  hovered, 

In  summer's  hour,  in  summer's  hour, 
To-day  with  joy  has  covered 

My  winter  bower,  my  winter  bower. 
Blest  be  the  lips  that  breathe  it, 

As  mine  have  been,  as  mine  have  been, 
When  pressed  in  dreams  beneath  it, 

To  hers  unseen,  to  hers  unseen. 


EPISTLES,     ETC.  213 

And  may  her  heart,  wherever 

Its  hope  may  be,  its  hope  may  be, 
Beat  happily,  though  never 

To  beat  for  me,  to  beat  for  me. 

Is  she  a  spirit  given 

One  hour  to  earth,  one  hour  to  earth, 
To  bring  me  dreams  from  heaven, 

Her  place  of  birth,  her  place  of  birth  ? 
Or  minstrel  maiden  hidden, 

Like  cloistered  nun,  like  cloistered  nun, 
A  bud,  a  flower  forbidden, 

To  air  and  sun,  to  air  and  sun  ? 
For  had  I  power  to  summon, 

With  harp  divine,  with  harp  divine, 
The  angel  or  the  woman, 

The  last  were  mine,  the  last  were  mine. 

If  earth-born  beauty's  fingers 

Awaked  the  lay,  awaked  the  lay, 
Whose  echoed  music  lingers 

Around  my  way,  around  my  way, 


214  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

Where  smiles  the  hearth  she  blesses 

With  voice  and  eye,  with  voice  and  eye  ? 
Where  binds  the  night  her  tresses, 

When  sleep  is  nigh,  when  sleep  is  nigh  1 
Is  Fashion's  bleak  cold  mountain 

Her  bosom's  throne,  her  bosom's  throne  ? 
Or  love's  green  vale  and  fountain, 

With  one  alone,  with  one  alone  1 


Why  ask "?  why  seek  a  treasure 

Like  her  I  sing,  like  her  I  sing  1 
Her  name  nor  pain  nor  pleasure 

To  me  should  bring,  to  me  should  bring. 
Love  must  not  grieve  or  gladden 

My  thoughts  of  snow,  my  thoughts  of  snow, 
Nor  woman  soothe  or  sadden 

My  path  below,  my  path  below. 
Before  a  worldlier  altar 

I've  knelt  too  long,  I've  knelt  too  long ; 
And  if  my  footsteps  falter 

Tis  but  in  song,  'tis  but  in  song. 


KPISTLES,     ETC.  215 

Nor  would  I  break  the  vision 

Young  fancies  frame,  young  fancies  frame, 
That  lights  with  stars  Elysian 

A  poet's  name,  a  poet's  name. 
For  she  whose  gentle  spirit 

Such  dreams  sublime,  such  dreams  sublime, 
Gives  hues  they  do  not  merit 

To  sons  of  rhyme,  to  sons  of  rhyme. 
But  place  the  proudest  near  her, 

Whate'er  their  pen,  whate'er  their  pen, 
She'll  say  (be  mute  who  hear  her) 

Mere  mortal  men,  mere  mortal  men ! 


Yet  though  unseen,  unseeing, 

We  meet  and  part,  we  meet  and  part, 
Be  still  my  worshipped  being, 

In  mind  and  heart,  in  mind  and  heart. 
And  bid  thy  song  that  found  me, 

My  minstrel  maid,  my  minstrel  maid ! 
Be  winter's  sunbeam  round-«ne. 

And  summer's  shade,  and  summer's  shade. 


216  EPISTLES,     ETC. 

I  could  not  gaze  upon  thee, 

And  dare  thy  spell,  and  dare  thy  spell, 
And  when  a  happier  won  thee, 

Thus  bid  farewell,  thus  bid  farewell. 
1832. 


EXTRACT. 

FROM    AN     UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 

(See  page  80.) 

I. 

THEY  burnt  their  last  witch  in  CONNECTICUT 

About  a  century  and  a  half  ago ; 
They  made  a  school-house  of  her  forfeit  hut, 

And  gave  a  pitying  sweet-briar  leave  to  grow 
Above  her  thankless  ashes ;  and  they  put 

A  certified  description  of  the  show 
Between  two  weeping  willows,  craped  with  black, 

On  the  last  page  of  that  year's  almanac. 
10 


218  EXTRACT. 


II. 


Some  warning  and  well-meant  remarks  were  made 
Upon  the  subject  by  the  weekly  printers ; 

The  people  murmured  at  the  taxes  laid 

To  pay  for  jurymen  and  pitch-pine  splinters, 

And  the  sad  story  made  the  rose-leaf  fade 

Upon  young  listeners'  cheeks  for  several  winters, 

When  told  at  fire-side  eves  by  those  who  saw 

Executed — the  lady  and  the  law. 


III. 


She  and  the  law  found  rest :  years  rose  and  set ; 

That  generation,  cottagers  and  kings, 
Slept  with  their  fathers,  and  the  violet 

Has  mourned  above  their  graves  a  hundred  springs 
Few  persons  keep  a  file  of  the  Gazette, 

And  almanacs  are  sublunary  things, 
So  that  her  fame  is  almost  lost  to  earth, 
As  if  she  ne'er  had  breathed  ;  and  of  her  birth, 


EXTRACT.  21 9 


IV. 


And  death,  and  lonely  life's  mysterious  matters, 
And  how  she  played,  in  our  forefathers'  times, 

The  very  devil  with  their  sons  and  daughters ; 
And  how  those  "  delicate  Ariels  "  of  her  crimes, 

The  spirits  of  the  rocks,  and  woods,  and  waters, 
Obeyed  her  bidding  when,  in  charmed  rhymes, 

She  muttered,  at  deep  midnight,  spells  whose  power 

Woke  from  brief  dream  of  dew  the  sleeping  summer 
flower. 

V. 

And  hushed  the  night-bird's  solitary  hymn, 
And  spoke  in  whispers  to  the  forest-tree, 

Till  his  awed  branches  trembled,  leaf  and  limb, 
And  grouped  her  church-yard  shapes  of  fantasie 

Round  merry  moonlight's  meadow-fountain's  brim, 
And,  mocking  for  a  space  the  dread  decree, 

Brought  back  to  dead,  cold  lips  the  parted  breath, 

And  changed  to  banquet-board  the  bier  of  death, 


220  EXTRACT. 


VI. 


None  knew — except  a  patient,  precious  few, 

Who've  read  the  folios  of  one  COTTON  MATHER, 

A  chronicler  of  tales  more  strange  than  true, 

New-England's  chaplain,  and  her  history's  father ; 

A  second  Monmouth's  GEOFFRY,  a  new 
HERODOTUS,  their  laurelled  victor  rather, 

For  in  one  art  he  soars  above  them  high  : 

The  Greek  or  Welshman  does  not  always  lie. 


VII. 


Know  ye  the  venerable  COTTON  ?     He 

Was  the  first  publisher's  tourist  on  this  station  ; 

The  first  who  made,  by  libelling  earth  and  sea, 
A  huge  book,  and  a  handsome  speculation  : 

And  ours  was  then  a  land  of  mystery, 
Fit  theme  for  poetry's  exaggeration, 

The  wildest  wonder  of  the  month ;  and  there 

He  wandered  freely,  like  a  bird  or  bear, 


EXTRACT.  221 


VIII. 

And  wove  his  forest  dreams  into  quaint  prose, 
Our  sires  his  heroes,  where,  in  holy  strife, 

They  treacherously  war  with  friends  and  foes ; 
Where  meek  Religion  wears  the  assassin's  knife, 

And  *  bids  the  desert  blossom  like  the  rose,' 
By  sprinkling  earth  with  blood  of  Indian  life, 

And  rears  her  altars  o'er  the  indignant  bones 

Of  murdered  maidens,  wives,  and  little  ones. 


IX. 


HEROD  of  Galilee's  babe-butchering  deed 
Lives  not  on  history's  blushing  page  alone ; 

Our  skies,  it  seems,  have  seen  like  victims  bleed, 
And  our  own  Ramahs  echoed  groan  for  groan  : 

The  fiends  of  France,  whose  cruelties  decreed 

Those  dexterous  drownings  in  the  Loire  and  Rhone, 

Were  at  their  worst,  but  copyists  second-hand 

Of  our  shrined,  sainted  sires,  the  Plymouth  pilgrim-band, 


222  EXTRACT. 


Or  else  fibs  MATHER.     Kindred  wolves  have  bayed 
Truth's  moon  in  chorus,  but  believe  them  not ! 

Beneath  the  dark  trees  that  the  Lethe  shade, 
Be  he,  his  folios,  followers,  facts,  forgot ; 

And  let  his  perishing  monument  be  made 
Of  his  own  unsold  volumes  :  'tis  the  lot 

Of  many,  may  be  mine ;  and  be  it  MATHER'S, 

That  slanderer  of  the  memory  of  our  fathers. 


XI. 


And  who  were  they,  our  fathers  1     In  their  veins 
Ran  the  best  blood  of  England's  gentlemen  ; 

Her  bravest  in  the  strife  on  battle-plains, 
Her  wisest  in  the  strife  of  voice  and  pen ; 

Her  holiest,  teaching,  in  her  holiest  fanes, 
The  lore  that  led  to  martyrdom ;   and  when 

On  this  side  ocean  slept  their  wearied  sails, 

And  their  toil-bells  woke  up  our  thousand  hills  and  dales, 


EXTRACT.  223 


XII. 


Shamed  they  their  fathers  ?     Ask  the  village-spires 
Above  their  Sabbath-homes  of  praise  and  prayer ; 

Ask  of  their  children's  happy  household-fires, 
And  happier  harvest-noons  ;  ask  summer's  air, 

Made  merry  by  young  voices,  when  the  wires 
Of  their  school-cages  are  unloosed,  and  dare 

Their  slanderer's  breath  to  blight  the  memory 

That  o'er  their  graves  is  "  growing  green  to  see !" 

XIII. 

If  he  has  "  writ  their  annals  true  ;"  if  they, 

The  Christian-sponsored  and  the  Christian-nurst, 

Clouded  with  crime  the  sunset  of  their  day 

And  warmed  their  winter's  hearths  with  fires  accurst ; 

And  if  the  stain  that  time  wears  not  away 
Of  guilt  was  on  the  pilgrim  axe  that  first 

Our  wood-paths  roses  blest  with  smiles  from  heaven, 

In  charity  forget,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven. 


EXTRACT. 


XIV. 


Forget  their  story's  cruelty  and  wrong ; 

Forget  their  story-teller ;  or  but  deem 
His  facts  the  fictions  of  a  minstrel's  song, 

The  myths  and  marvels  of  a  poet's  dream. 
And  are  they  not  such  ?     Suddenly  among 

My  mind's  dark  thoughts  its  boyhood's  sunrise  beam 

Breathes  in  spring  balm  and  beauty  o'er  my  page 

Joy  !  joy  !  my  patriot  wrath  hath  wronged  the  reverend 
sage. 

XV. 

Welcome !  young  boyhood,  welcome !     Of  thy  lore, 
Thy  morning-gathered  wealth  of  prose  and  rhyme, 

Of  fruit  the  flower,  of  gold  the  infant  ore, 

The  roughest  shuns  not  manhood's  stormy  clime, 

But  loves  wild  ocean's  winds  and  breakers'  roar 
While,  of  the  blossoms  of  the  sweet  spring-time, 

The  bonniest,  and  most  bountiful  of  joy, 

Shrink  from  the  man,  and  cling  around  the  boy. 


EXTRACT.  225 


XVI. 

But  now,  like  doves  "  with  healing  on  their  wings," 
Blossom  and  fruit  with  gladdening  kindness  come, 

Charming  to  sleep  my  murmuring  song,  that  sings 
Unworthy  dirges  over  MATHER'S  tomb  : 

Welcome  the  olive-branch  their  message  brings ! 
It  bids  me  wish  him  not  the  mouldering  doom 

Of  nameless  scribes  of  "  memoires  pour  servir" 

Dishonest  "  chroniclers  of  time's  small-beer." 


XVII. 

No  :  a  born  Poet,  at  his  cradle-fire 

The  muses  nursed  him  as  their  bud  unblown, 

And  gave  him,  as  his  mind  grew  high  and  higher, 
Their  ducal  strawberry  leafs  enwreathed  renown. 

Alas !  that  mightiest  masters  of  the  lyre, 

Whose  pens  above  an  eagle's  heart  have  grown, 

In  all  the  proud  nobility  of  wing, 

Should  stoop  to  dip  their  points  in  passion's  poison-spring. 
10* 


220  EXTRACT. 


XVIII. 

Yet  MILTON,  weary  of  his  youth's  young  wife, 
To  her,  to  king,  to  church,  to  law  untrue, 

Warred  for  divorce  and  discord  to  the  knife, 
And  proudest  wore  his  plume  of  darkest  hue: 

And  DANTE,  when  his  FLORENCE,  in  her  strife, 
Robbed  him  of  office  and  his  temper,  threw 

'Mongst  friends  and  foes  a  bomb-shell  of  fierce  rhymes, 

Shivering  their  names  and  fames  to  all  succeeding  times. 

XIX. 

And  our  own  MATHER'S  fire-and-faggot  tale 

Of  Conquest,  with  her  "  garments  rolled  in  blood," 

And  banners  blackening,  like  a  pirate's  sail, 

The  Mayflower's  memories  of  the  brave  and  good, 

Though  but  a  brain-born  dream  of  rain  and  hail, 
And  in  his  epic  but  an  episode, 

Proves  mournfully  the  strange  and  sad  admission 

Of  much  sour  grape-juice  in  his  disposition. 


EXTRACT.  227 


XX. 

O  Genius  !  powerful  with  thy  praise  or  blame, 
When  art  thou  feigning1?  when  art  thou  sincere? 

MATHER,  who  banned  his  living  friends  with  shame, 
In  funeral-sermons  blessed  them  on  their  bier, 

And  made  their  death-beds  beautiful  with  fame — 
Fame  true  and  gracious  as  a  widow's  tear 

To  her  departed  darling  husband  given ; 

Him  whom  she  scolded  up  from  earth  to  heaven. 

XXT 

Thanks  for  hi?  funeral  sermons ;  they  recall 
The  sunshine  smiling  through  his  folio's  leaves, 

That  makes  his  readers'  hours  in  bower  or  hall 
Joyous  as  plighted  hearts  on  bridal  eves  ; 

Chasing,  like  music  from  the  soul  of  Saul, 

The  doubt  that  darkens,  and  the  ill  that  grieves ; 

And  honoring  the  author's  heart  and  mind, 

That  beats  to  bless,  and  toils  to  ennoble  human  kind. 


228  EXTRACT. 


XXII. 

His  chaplain-mantle  worthily  to  wear, 
He  fringed  its  sober  gray  with  poet-bays, 

And  versed  the  Psalms  of  David  to  the  air 
Of  YANKEE-DOODLE,  for  Thanksgiving-days; 

Thus  hallowing  with  the  earnestness  of  prayer, 
And  patriotic  purity  of  praise, 

Unconscious  of  irreverence  or  wrong, 

Our  manliest  battle-tune  and  merriest  bridal  song. 

XXIII. 

The  good  the  Rhine-song  does  to  German  hearts, 
Or  thine,  Marseilles !  to  France's  fiery  blood  ; 

The  good  thy  anthemed  harmony  imparts, 

"  GOD  save  the  Queen  !"  to  England's  field  and  flood, 

A  home-born  blessing,  Nature's  boon,  not  Art's  ; 
The  same  heart-cheering,  spirit-warming  good, 

To  us  and  ours,  where'er  we  war  or  woo, 

Thy  words  and  music,  YANKEE-DOODLE  ! — do. 


EXTRACT. 


XXIV. 

Beneath  thy  Star,  as  one  of  the  THIRTEEN, 

Land  of  my  lay !  through  many  a  battle's  night 

Thy  gallant  men  stepped  steady  and  serene, 
To  that  war-music's  stern  and  strong  delight. 

Where  bayonets  clenched  above  the  trampled  green, 
Where  sabres  grappled  in  the  ocean  fight ; 

In  siege,  in  storm,  on  deck  or  rampart,  there 

They  hunted  the  wolf  Danger  to  his  lair, 

And   sought   and   won  sweet   Peace,  and   wreaths  for 
Honor's  hair ! 

XXV. 

And  with  thy  smiles,  sweet  Peace,  came  woman's,  bringing 
The  Eden-sunshine  of  her  welcome  kiss, 

And  lover's  flutes,  and  children's  voices  singing 
The  maiden's  promised,  matron's  perfect  bliss, 

And  heart  and  home-bells  blending  with  their  ringing 
Thank-offerings  borne  to  holier  worlds  than  this, 

And  the  proud  green  of  Glory's  laurel-leaves, 

And  gold,  the  gift  to  Peace,  of  Plenty's  summer  sheaves. 


TO  LOUIS  OAYLOKD  CLARK,  ESQ. 

I'VE  greeted  many  a  bonny  bride 

On  many  a  bridal  day, 
In  homes  serene  and  summer-skied, 
Where  Love's  spring-buds,  with  joy  and  pride 

Had  blossomed  into  May  ; 
But  ne'er  on  lovelier  bride  than  thine 
Looked  these  delighted  eyes  of  mine, 
And  ne'er,  in  happier  bridal  bower 
Than  hers,  smiled  rose  and  orange  flower 

Through  green  leaves  glad  and  gay, 
When  bridesmaids,  grouped  around  her  room, 
In  youth's,  in  truth's,  in  beauty's  bloom, 


TO     LOUIS     GAYLORD     CLAKK.  231 

Entwined,  with  merry  fingers  fair, 
Their  garlands  in  her  sunny  hair ; 
Or  bosomed  them,  with  graceful  art, 
Above  the  beatings  of  her  heart. 

I  well  remember,  as  I  stood, 
Among  that  pleasant  multitude, 
A  stranger,  mateless  and  forlorn, 
Pledged  batchelor  and  hermit  sworn, 
That,  when  the  holy  voice  had  given, 

In  consecrated  words  of  power, 
The  sanction  of  approving  Heaven 

To  marriage-ring,  and  roof,  and  dower , 
When  she,  a  Wife,  in  matron  pride, 
Stood,  life-devoted,  at  thy  side ; 
When  happy  lips  had  pressed  her  cheek, 
And  happiest  lips  her  "  bonny  mou','7 
And  she  had  smiled  with  blushes  meek, 

On  my  congratulating  bow, 
A  sunbeam,  balmy  with  delight, 
Entranced,  subdued  me,  till  I  quite 

Forgot  my  anti-nuptial  vow, 


232  TO     LOUIS     GAYLOllD     CLARK. 

And  almost  asked,  with  serious  brow 

And  voice  of  true  and  earnest  tone, 
The  bridesmaid  with  the  prettiest  face 
To  take  me,  heart  and  hand,  and  grace 
A  wedding  of  my  own. 

Time's  years,  it  suits  me  not  to  say 

How  many,  since  that  joyous  day, 

Have  watched  and  cheered  thee  on  thy  way 

O'er  Duty's  chosen  path  severe, 
And  seen  thee,  heart  and  thought  full  grown, 
Tread  manhood's  thorns  and  tempters  down, 

And  win,  like  Pythian  charioteer, 
The  wreaths  and  race-cups  of  renown — 
Seen  thee,  thy  name  and  deeds,  enshrined 
Within  the  peerage-book  of  mind — 
And  seen  my  morning  prophecy 
Truth-blazoned  on  a  noon-day  sky, 
That  he,  whose  worth  could  win  a  wife 

Lovely  as  thine,  at  life's  beginning, 
Would  always  wield  the  power,  through  life, 

Of  winning  all  things  worth  the  winning. 


TO     LOUIS     GAYLOBD     CLARK.  233 

Hark !  there  ure  songs  on  Summer's  breeze, 
And  dance  and  song  in  Summer's  trees, 
And  choruses  of  birds  and  bees 

In  Air,  their  world  of  happy  wings ; 
What  far-off  minstrelsy,  whose  tone 
And  words  are  sweeter  than  their  own, 

Has  waked  these  cordial  welcomings  ? 
'Tis  nearer  now,  and  now  more  near, 
And  now  rings  out  like  clarion  clear. 
They  come — the  merry  bells  of  Fame ! 
They  come — to  glad  me  with  thy  name, 
And  borne  upon  their  music's  sea, 
From  wave  to  wave  melodiously, 
Glad  tidings  bring  of  thine  and  thee. 
They  tell  me  that,  Life's  tasks  well  done, 
Ere  shadows  mark  thy  westering  sun, 
Thy  Bark  has  reached  a  quiet  shore, 
And  rests,  with  slumbering  sail  and  oar, 
Fast  anchored  near  a  cottage  door, 

Thy  home  of  pleasantness  and  peace, 


234  TO     LOUIS     GAYLORD     CLARK. 

Of  Love,  with  eyes  of  Heaven's  blue, 
And  Health,  with  cheek  of  rose's  hue, 

And  Riches,  with  "  the  Golden  Fleece  :  " 
Where  she,  the  Bride,  a  Mother  now, 

Encircled  round  with  sons  and  daughters, 
Waits  my  congratulary  bow 

To  greet  her  cottage  woods  and  waters  ; 
And  thou  art  proving,  as  in  youth, 
By  daily  kindnesses,  the  truth 
And  wisdom  of  the  Scottish  rhyme — 
"  To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

For  children  and  for  wife, 
Is  the  true  pathos  and  sublime," 

And  green  and  gold  of  Life. 

From  long-neglected  garden-bowers 

Come  these,  my  songs'  memorial  flowers, 

With  greetings  from  my  heart,  they  come 

To  seek  the  shelter  of  thy  home  ; 

Though  faint  their  hues,  and  brief  their  bloom, 

And  all  unmeet  for  gorgeous  room 


TO  LOUIS  GAYLORD  CLARK.       235 

Of  "  honor,  love,  obedience, 

And  troops  of  friends,"  like  thine. 
I  hope  thou  wilt  not  banish  thence 

These  few  and  fading  flowers  of  mine, 
But  let  their  theme  be  their  defence, 
The  love,  the  joy,  the  frankincense, 

And  fragrance  o'  LANG  SYNE. 
Four  LEE,  N.  J.,  July,  1854. 


NOTES. 


(1)  Page  9.— MARCO  BOZZARIS,  one  of  the  best  and  bravest  of  the 
modern  Greek  chieftains.     He  fell  in  a  night  attack  upon  the  Turkish 
camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Platjea,  August  20,  1823,  and 
expired  in  the  moment  of  victory. 

(2)  Page  15. — ALNWICK  CASTLE,  Northumberlandshire,  a  seat  of  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland.    Written  in  October,  1822. 

From  him  who  once  his  standard  set. — Page  18. 

(3)  One  of  the  ancestors  of  the  Percy  family  was  an  Emperor  of 
Constantinople. 

Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington. — Page  18. 

(4)  The  late  duke.     He  commanded  a  detachment  of  the  British 
army,  in  the  affair  at  Lexington  and  Concord,  in  1775. 

From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand. — Page  19. 

(5)  Berwick  was  formerly  a  principality.     Richard  II.  was  styled 
"  King  of  England,  France,  and  Ireland,  and  Berwick-upon-Tweed." 

(6)  Page  36. — WYOMING. — The  allusion  in  the  following  stanzas  can 
be  understood  by  those  only  who  have  read  Campbell's  beautiful 
poem,  "GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING:"  bnt  who  has  not  read  it? 


238  NOTES. 

(7)  Page  50.— "BED  JACKET"  appeared  originally  in  1828,   soon 
after  the  publication  of  Mr.  Cooper's  "  NOTIONS  OF  THE  AMERICANS." 

(8)  Page  64. — MAGDALEN. — Written  in  1823,  for  a  love-stricken 
young  officer  on  Ms  way  to  Greece.    The  reader  will  have  the  kind 
ness  to  presume  that  he  died  there. 

(9)  Page  89.— Lieut.  ALLEN.— He  commanded  the  U.  S.  Sloop-of- 
War  Alligator,  and  was  mortally  wounded  on  the  9th  of  November, 
1822,  in  an  action  with  pirates,  near  Matanzas,  in  the  Island  of  Cuba. 
His  mother,  a  few  hours  after  hearing  of  his  death,  died— literally  of 
a  broken  heart. 


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